Sé mor'ranr ono finna
by playonworlds
Summary: Eragon is accidentally teleported to Panem (well, OK, not so accidentally, it was kind of Galbatorix's fault all along) where he meets Katniss and - YOU GUESSED IT- has to participate in the Hunger Games. Will he win? Will he die? Read and find out! Rated T for violence and mild language.
1. Prologue

**OK, well this is my VERY FIRST fanfiction so please read it and review it. In fact I don't care if you don't read it. I just want you to review it, REVIEW REVIEW REVIEW! **

**Anyway, if you like this, and the next chapter, I'll update once a week. (At least, I'll try…) **

**Enjoy! (Oh yeah, and you should probably have read the Inheritance Cycle and the Hunger Games if you want to understand this…) (DISCLAIMER: I own neither the Inheritance Cycle or (or is that nor?) The Hunger Games. Obviously I own the paper versions. By that I mean I have a copy of the books. But I don't own the rights. That clear?)**

**Neither do I own the cover art for this fic! Don't sue me, I'm not making any profit from using it!**

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Prologue: A dying King's final blow

Once again Galbatorix ran at Eragon, slashing at him as he did. Eragon blocked one blow, then another, and then took a hit on his ribs, which nearly caused him to black out.

"Make it stop", said Galbatorix, his tone more pleading than threatening."The pain..."

Another yowl, this one more frantic than the last, came from Shruikan. Behind the king, Eragon saw Thorn clinging to Shruikan's neck, opposite Saphira. The combined weight of the two dragons pulled down Shruikan's head until it was close to the floor. However, the black dragon was still too large and strong for them to subdue. Moreover, his neck was so thick, Eragon did not think either Saphira or Thorn would be able to hurt him much with their teeth.

Then, like a shadow flitting through a forest, Eragon saw Arya dart out from behind a pillar and run towards the dragons. In her left hand, the green Dauthdaert glowed with its usual starry nimbus.

Shruikan saw her coming and jerked his body, trying to dislodge Saphira and Thorn. When they remained affixed, he snarled and opened his jaws and painted the area in front of him with a torrent of fire.

Arya dove forward, and for a moment, Eragon lost sight of her behind the wall of she came into view again, not far from where Shruikan's head hung above the floor. The ends of her hair were on fire, but she seemed not to notice.

With three bounding steps, she leaped onto Shruikan's left forefoot, and from there flung herself toward the side of his head, trailing fire like a comet. Uttering a shout that could be heard throughout the throne room, Arya threw the Dauthdaert into the center of Shruikan's great, gleaming ice-blue eye and buried the full length of the spear within his skull.

Shruikan bellowed and twitched, and then he slowly fell sideways, liquid fire pouring from his mouth.

Saphira and Thorn jumped clear a moment before the gigantic black dragon struck the floor.

Pillars cracked; chunks of stone fell from the ceiling and shattered. A number of lanterns broke, and gouts of some molten substance dribbled out of them.

Eragon nearly fell as the room shuddered. He had not been able to see what had happened to Arya, but he feared that Shruikan's bulk might have crushed her.

"Eragon!"shouted Elva."Duck!"

He ducked, and he heard a whistle of wind as Galbatorix's white blade swung over his lowered back.

Rising, Eragon lunged forwards…

… and stabbed Galbatorix in the center of his stomach, even as he had stabbed Murtagh.

The king grunted, and then he stepped back, pulling himself off Eragon's blade. He touched the wound with his free hand and stared at the blood on the tips of his fingers. Then he looked back at Eragon and said,"The voices… The voices are terrible. I can't bear it…" He closed his eyes, and fresh tears streamed down his cheeks."Pain… so much pain. So much grief… Make it stop! _Make it stop!_"

"No,"said Eragon. Elva joined him, as did Saphira and Thorn from the other end of the room. With them, Eragon was relieved to see, was Arya, burned and bloodied, but otherwise unhurt.

Galbatorix's eyes snapped open – round and rimmed with an unnatural amount of white – and he stared into the distance, as if Eragon and those before him no longer existed. He shook and trembled and his jaw worked, but no sound came from his throat.

Then he growled, a rumbling feral sound, and snarled in a voice so filled with pain and despair and pure, unadulterated _hatred_ that Eragon actually took a step back: "Very well, Eragon _Shadeslayer._ You might have bested me, but you will not have a chance to enjoy your victory. You will wish that you had never defied me, that you had _begged_ to become my _slave_!" He raised his arm and his palm glowed, and Eragon cried out in pain as every fiber in his body felt as if it were ripping apart. A taste of blood coated his tongue; sweat beaded on his brow and he heard Saphira roar; and then there was only coldness and blackness as Galbatorix's spell took affect and his mind faded into unconsciousness and he knew no more.

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**W****ell, I hope that was OK… Even if it wasn't, REVIEW! Please! You would be helping me so much! (That must've sounded very pathetic :)… ) Anyway, I promise that in the next chapter, things will be more interesting! **

**See you soon! (Hopefully…)**


	2. Chapter 1

**Next chapter! I don't know whether you're enjoying reading this fanfic, but I'm enjoying writing it. (I suppose nobody really cares about me, though…) Anyway, if you want this EXCELLENT** **story to carry on, you have. To. Review. Reviews are, to put it simply, my life blood. (And you wouldn't want to have_ murder_ on your conscience, now would you?)**

**On that cheery note, enjoy!**

**(DISCLAIMER: I own neither the Inheritance Cycle or/nor The Hunger Games.) **

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A Strange New World

Eragon opened his eyes slowly and painfully. His vision blurred and swam and a stabbing headache lanced through his head like needles of fire. He was lying on loose, leaf-strewn soil and his face was pressed into the earth. He gathered his wobbly, scattered mind together and managed a groggy thought: _What happened? _Then, as memories came flooding in, he shot to his feet, fell straight back down onto his rump, and called out with both mind and body, "Saphira?"

No answer, save the rustle of wind in the trees.

"Saphira!"he yelled, projecting his thoughts in a wide sphere around him, but encountering only the primitive consciousnesses of the denizens of the forest. Dove, squirrel, vole, fox, past all these beings his mind swept, searching for but not finding a blue dragon, his partner of heart and soul. _Saphira! _Where was she? Where was Arya? Where was Elva? And Murtagh and Thorn and… and…

"Galbatorix!"he snarled, clenching his hand into a fist and bringing it up in front of his eyes. Galbatorix! That tick-infested, yellow-bellied mangy son of a motherless bitch… What had he done this time? Teleported Eragon somewhere far, far away with his final breath? Broken the bond between he and Saphira by the use of a dark, forgotten magic? No, that wasn't possible, he reassured himself. But he had done _something…_ Looking around, Eragon realized that his first guess had seemed to hit the situation spot-on, because he most definitely was not in the citadel of Urû'baen anymore. Nor was he even _in _Urû'baen.

Around him were tall, leafy, deciduous trees casting long shadows upon the ground, and when he glanced up Eragon guessed that it was around late afternoon, at least judging by what he could see of the sun that filtered through the canopy. This was all very strange. If only, at least, he had Saphira…

He pressed his hands against his head and took deep breaths to steady himself. He still had Brisingr. He still had the Ancient Language. And he still had his wits. He would find a way out of this, and he would find Saphira.

He got shakily to his feet and bit back a curse as the injuries inflicted upon him by Murtagh throbbed and stang. He had forgotten about them. Eragon quickly removed his helm, gauntelets and bracers, belt, battered hauberk and bloodstained tunic, and examined the wound in his side. A long red gash ripped across his flank and part of his back and was slowly ooozing blood, but it was already partly covered by the congealing liquid. It was a fairly serious wound but as far as Eragon could tell no vital organ had been touched and besides, he had taken far worse before. Still, it hurt and presented a chance of infection, and he decided it would be better to heal it. He placed his right hand over the injury and murmured the words: "Waise heill". Be healed. He waited for the familiar sight of flesh knitting itself back together, of skin filming over the cut, but nothing happened.

Confused, Eragon repeated the spell but to no avail. The wound would not close, and he did not feel the drop in his energy that came with the use of magic. He tried again on a smaller lesion, the nick over his right knee, and arrived at the same conclusion, that he could no longer use the Ancient Language.

Eragon fought down a sick swirl of panic as all the implications of the loss of his powers crashed down upon him in a black wave of despair. Already, not being able to heal himself was a grievous blow. Then there was the problem of building a fire to warm himself, having to accomplish by hand arduous physical tasks… the list was endless. Eragon was no weakling and he'd grown up in a harsh rural environnement where he'd often had to fend for himself, but he'd grown used to the comforting weight of the Ancient Language at the back of his mind and it was a staggering shock to no longer be able to rely upon it. He stumbled to a tree and leant against it, breathing hard and gulping down the dread that once again threatened to overwhelm him. After all, he still had the power of thought and that could be used as a weapon.

Eragon spied a squirrel perched on a branch a few feet away and despite his elven-bred reluctance to kill a living creature, reached out mentally to crush the little animal's consciousness. He needed a handhold, a reassurance. He concentrated, searching for the squirrel's mental location, but sensed only a faint whisper.

He felt it disappearing, slipping away from him as if he were trying to catch smoke with his hands, as if he were trying to catch something that _could not_ be caught. Then, in a faint breath, a final mocking hiss from Galbatorix, it was gone.

The squirrel scampered away up a branch, unaware of the despair it had just caused.

Eragon slumped to the ground and put his head in his hands. This was the end, then. No other hope remained. He couldn't be in Alagaësia, for not even Galbatorix had the power to strip a Dragon Rider of their abilities, and if he wasn't in Alagaësia and could no longer use the Ancient Language, then how would he ever get home? And where, oh_ where, _was Saphira?

Eragon was tempted to just curl up in a ball on the ground and give up, and for a moment he considered doing just that, but even though he'd lost the power to use magic, even though he'd lost his dragon and his home, he still had his determination. And he still had courage. And he knew that he hadn't come as far as he had by chance. It was because he hadn't admitted defeat. Because he hadn't given in. And he was damned if he was going to give in now.

Inspired by his little mental speech, Eragon got to his feet, wincing as the cut above his knee burned. It really was a bloody nuisance, this inability to heal himself. He unbuckled his greaves and rolled up his leggings which he had to peel away from his skin; they were stuck to his legs with dried blood. A significant amount of hair came off with them. Eragon cursed from between gritted teeth at the pain and tore a strip off his tunic with which he bound the wound, frustrated about not being able to do more. He also bandaged the wound in his side and a nick on his right calf. The rest of his injuries were just bruises and scratches.

He pressed his hands against the small of his back to relieve stiff muscles and took stock. His only possessions were Brisingr, his clothes and his armour. He didn't know where he was, apart from that he was no longer in Alagaësia. He had no food or water. He had lost the Ancient Language. And he was injured.

In short, he was in the shit.

Eragon sighed as he pulled his dented greaves back on. He decided to discard his tunic as it was torn and stained, and so he dropped his damaged hauberk over his head, screwing up his face as the cold chainmail met his skin. Over his hauberk he buckled his belt from which Brisingr still hung like a blue icicle, then put on his gauntelets and bracers and finally lifted his helm onto his head.

He took a deep breath.

Then the Dragon Rider set off through the forest.

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Eragon stopped.

He'd been trekking through the woods for a couple of hours at least and behind him the sky was starting to smudge with the purple and gold of sunset. He'd been losing any hope he had of finding human civilization and was starting to think that maybye he was going to have to live in these woods for the rest of his life when he saw the fence. Eragon squinted hopefully through its wire links - after all, a fence meant people, and perhaps a clue as to where he was – and saw a shabby little meadow, then crumbly, dilapidated buildings, all coated in a layer of black dust and built in a fashion that was alien and yet somehow reminded him of home. He shook his head to dispel the distracting thought and concentrated on the fence itself. It was a good ten feet tall and very strange, being constructed only from loops of wire connecting thicker metal posts topped with coils of spiky wire. It wasn't at all a good fortification; an army could bring it down in less than a minute, which led him to think that it was perhaps less to keep intruders _out_, and more to keep people _in._

Eragon stepped back and thought. He had two basic options. One was to stay in the forest and wait. Yes, but for what? For Arya and Saphira to come and rescue him? No, he preferred option two, which was to climb over the fence and find someone on the other side who could explain everything, like where he was, what this village was, and why the heck he couldn't use magic.

Eragon grinned at his ability to be stupid even in the most dire of situations, then leapt lightly into the air and landed against the fence, halfway up. Making use of his elven agility, he slithered swiftly to the top and leapt athletically over, tucking his knees up against his chest to avoid being pricked by the barbed wire. He landed soundlessly on the other side, a fall that would have injured a normal man. Then Eragon started off through the field, keeping a wary hand on Brisingr's hilt. After all, he didn't know that the inhabitants of this village were necessarily _friendly_, or even necessarily _human_.

He soon reached a narrow, dirty street, draped in shadows from the dusk. He saw a few people going about their respective businesses, but mostly the streets were deserted and the windows of the houses lit with flat, uniform glares. Eragon didn't think it was candlelight, and tried peering in, but could see no visible source of light. He shrugged to himself. Who knew what this place was?

He spotted a nearby young woman facing away from him and tapped her on the shoulder. "Excuse me," he said. The woman whirled round, her dark braid flying out behind her head, to reveal large wary eyes and a sharp face filled with alertness. Eragon backed away automatically beneath her fierce gaze. She took one look at his battered armour and bruised face then reached out, grabbed his arm in a vice-like grip and dragged him into a gloomy alleyway.

"All right," she whispered. "You have just won first prize for being a total _idiot._ Wandering through the streets in – well, OK, not in broad daylight, but still when you are so_ obviously_ from another district is insane. Are you suicidal or what?"

Eragon hadn't understood a word of what she had just said. What was a district? And why was it suicidal to walk in the street if you were from a different one? And why the hell was she insulting him?

"Huh?" he managed.

"Don't act dumb," the woman said in exasperated tones."You know, I won't give you away if you just tell me where you're from. Perhaps I can help you. You certainly need it – you don't seem to have an ounce of common sense."

Eragon considered the situation. He really didn't know what she was talking about, or what he was supposed to reply. Which left telling the truth. But could he trust her? He remembered Glaedr's lesson – to observe others, determining their strenghts and weaknesses – and quickly registered the way the woman's shoulders curled forwards as if she were protecting something deep inside her, the way her dark eyes held, behind all the fierceness and fire, a glint of sadness and weariness. She was like him; at least, the him of all those months ago, the him whose farm had just been burned to the ground, the him who had just left his home to slay his uncle's killers with his newly hatched dragon – with Saphira. He swallowed hard and forced the thought from his mind. She was like him: determined, a little frightened, wary of anything and anyone. He could trust her.

"I'm not from here," he said softly, trying to put as much meaning into his words as he could.

"Oh, believe me, you do not know how evident that is,"she laughed.

"No, I… I'm not from _here,"_ he replied, not knowing how quite to explain the fact that he was from another world. "I'm from a land… a land very far away. At least, I think I am…" He paused, searching for the words that would make it clear in her mind. "I'm not in Alagaësia here, am I?"

The woman narrowed her eyes at him. "Er, _no_, this is Panem, and I don't think any part of it is called Alergayjuh."

"Alagaësia," he automatically corrected her.

She sighed. "Really, whatever. I think you must have bumped your head or something. Come along with me, I'll take you to my house, my mother's a healer…"

Eragon swallowed and took a deep breath. "I… I have proof," he said. "Proof that I'm not from here. That I'm not from Panem. That I'm from Alagaësia." He reached up and slowly removed his helm.

What had been hidden or dulled by the metal was now clear. A Dragon Rider now stood before the young woman, a Rider whose large, luminous eyes gleamed catlike in the dusk, a Rider whose sharp angled cheekbones and strong jawline glinted shadowy in the half-light of the falling sun, a Rider whose skin gleamed silvery with a soft sheen of cold magic. But most of all, it was the Rider's lobeless, upswept ears that were the object of the woman's gaze and the hallmark of his inheritance.

He stood there, waiting, while she stared dumbfounded at his face. Then he replaced the helm and the vision vanished. He raised an eyebrow. "Still think I'm from here?"

There was fear and awe in her voice when she whispered: "Who… _What_ are you?"

Eragon hesitated. He was many things. A kingkiller, a Dragon Rider, a man-elf hybrid. A Shadeslayer. The Silver Palm. Foster brother to the dwarf Orik and son of Brom, Rider before him. He was bonded to the dragon Saphira and wielder of the blue sword Brisingr. He opened and closed his mouth several times as he considered and discarded all these possibilities, then said simply, "I am Eragon."

The woman nodded, but Eragon could tell she wasn't satisfied by his answer. "I'm Katniss," she said. "Katniss Everdeen."

Eragon dipped his head, then asked,"You believe me know, do you not?" When she was silent, he continued. "I'm not from here. I have no idea what a district is. I have a feeling that if I do not learn more about this place, and quickly, I will be putting myself in danger. Can… can you help me?"

Katniss looked hesitant. Then she nodded, sharply. "I have a friend," she said. "Madge. She's the daughter of the mayor. I'm sure, if I mention her to you, she'll be able to get you a place in the district as if you've always lived here. I don't have time to explain it now, but people who do not have a district… Well, let's leave it at the fact that it's not a good thing."

"Okay," said Eragon. "I'd like it if you could do that. I'd find a way to repay you."

Katniss chewed on her lip. "You don't have to repay me," she said. "But there's something you should know before you ask this of me."

"What?"

"There is a… a _tradition _in Panem,"she said slowly. "The Hunger Games. Happens every year. The leading district here, the Capitol, picks one boy and one girl between the ages of twelve and eighteen from each other district – there are twelve in total, not counting the Capitol – in a ceremony known as the reaping, which will happen in exactly two weeks' time, and carts them off for a fight to the death in which there can only be one victor." Katniss looked Eragon straight in the eye and he saw a rage of burning emotions in her fiery stare. But he could identify none.

"If you ask me to do this for you," she said slowly and deliberately, so that he could and would not miss a single word of what she was telling him, "then there is a chance – a small one, but it is there nonetheless – that you will be reaped, and sent off to die in the Hunger Games."

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**I hope you enjoyed that. Remember to review. I'm just a poor writer trying to survive in a harsh, savage world… Your reviews really would help me. REALLY! So what are you waiting for? REVIEW TODAY!**

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	3. Chapter 2

**Well, here's chapter 2… I'm quite pleased with it, but you can tell me what you think about it by the means of a review. Oh yeah, and in this fanfic/crossover thing, I decided to change the tributes AND the arena cos I thought that would be more fun plus it gives me loads more freedom with the story. So, R&R folks, read and review! (DISCLAIMER: I own neither the Inheritance Cycle or/nor The Hunger Games.) **

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Tribute

Eragon had given up trying to wipe the black coal dust from his face and clothes long ago.

It had been two weeks since he'd arrived in District Twelve. Katniss had done what she'd promised to do, finding him a house and a job as a miner. He hated it. The endless hours spent underground in a cramped, pitch-black tunnel, inhaling clouds of soot each time he drew breath, were enough to drive him crazy. Still, he'd gained in popularity with the other miners because of his heightened senses – he mined twice as fast as them and could go twice as long without needing a break, and three times already he'd smelled the deadly, supposedly odourless gas methane before it became dangerousely concentrated, allowing the miners to evacuate and saving many lives, including his own. The pay was meager but it was enough to survive if he used it sparingly, and what he couldn't buy he found in the forest beyond the fence he'd scaled the first day. Apples, berries, nuts and roots all filled his stomach. Katniss had taken him hunting several times with her and her friend Gale Hawthorn – he and Eragon had rapidly developped a mutual respect for each other – but what she shot he couldn't eat, being a vegetarian. There were times when he regretted the love for living beings the elves had instilled in him, particularly when he saw all the meat on display at the market. He did have to admit that Katniss was astonishingly good with a bow for a human, though.

Eragon felt that he was doing well, but he was annoyed that he hadn't understood the situation yet, aside from knowing that Galbatorix had teleported him during the final battle. He didn't know how; the amount of energy required, even if the king had absorbed the life force of every living being in the room, wouldn't have been enough. It was a feat unprecedented in the history of magic.

Eragon sighed, pushing his potato around his plate with his fork. He knew all about this place now.

Twelve districts, one Capitol that controlled everything: food, supplies, the inhabitants of Panem. And of course, there were the Hunger Games. Eragon simply could not comprehend the barbarism of it. Twenty-four children, his age or younger, forced to kill or be killed to satisfy a bloodthirsty audience of – murderers, he could think of no other word to describe them. Murderers, every damned one of them. It wasn't that Eragon was not used to violence; he had seen many cruel, brutal things in his life. He had seen a pile of bodies – men, women and babies – heaped upon one another in a grisly mound that stood over twenty feet high, he had seen both friend and foe burned and beheaded and battered to death. He had seen men mutilating themselves deliberately, cutting off "unnecessary limbs" to become living stumps and free themselves of the "physical world". He had seen soldiers laughing while they were mangled and maimed until they passed the point when they normally should have died.

But the Hunger Games… well, that was something else entirely.

Eragon sighed again and pushed back his chair, getting to his feet. He left his plate on the table. He would not be returning to this house. The reaping was today, and Eragon had already decided that he would volunteer himself as the male tribute, for the simple and unique reason that he was far more likely to win than the poor, helpless boy who would be chosen. The only thing that held him back was having to kill other teenagers… and children. A taste of bile coated his tongue every time he thought of it.

By the time he reached the main square it was packed with people of the district, whose voices mingled in a soft buzz. A podium had been erected, and on it Eragon saw a freakish woman wearing way too much makeup and extremely odd clothes, the mayor – Mayor Undersee – and the only still living victor of District Twelve, Haymitch Abernathy, who by the look of it, was very, very drunk.

Eragon made his way to where the boys waited in a penned-off section of the square, near to the girls. _Like lambs to the slaughter_, he thought bitterly. Even though he knew that only two tributes would come out of this cluster of bloodless faces and red-rimmed eyes, and one of those two tributes would be him. It was all that he could do.

He slipped into the tense crush of boys and teenagers beside a tall, dark-haired young man that he recognized as Gale. It was Gale's shirt and trousers Eragon was wearing now. He nudged the hunter on the shoulder and said, "Good afternoon." Gale turned, and laughed.

"What's good about it?"

"Oh, I don't know," grinned Eragon. "The fact that one of us is about to be sent to his death in an arena to fulfill the entertainement cravings of a group of psychopaths? The fact that it's likely to be you or me? Really, there are so many things to be happy about."

Gale laughed again, but his laughter had a hollow ring to it, as if he were laughing just to indulge Eragon. They both turned back to the podium where the scary-looking woman was just proclaiming in loud, high-pitched tones: "Ladies first!" She plunged her hand into one of two large glass urns and her long pink nails snagged a slip of paper which pulled out and held before her face.

Silence fell in the square. Not a breath, not a whisper was heard.

"Katniss Everdeen!"she shrieked as if this were the greatest thing humankind had ever known. Eragon saw Katniss standing stiff and pale, jaw clenched. Katniss. Katniss Everdeen.

He remembered her words:_ T__here is a chance – a small one, but it is there nonetheless – that you will be reaped, and sent off to die in the Hunger Games._

How fate had a cruel sense of humour.

"No, Katniss! You can't go!" a little blonde girl was screaming, her eyes round and red-rimmed. Eragon recognized her as Primrose Everdeen, Katniss's little sister. "You can't!" She tried following her older sister up to the podium, but Gale held her back.

"Up you go, Catnip," he whispered to Katniss in a voice so low that Eragon was the only one who heard. The shrieks of the little girl were giving way to sobs, loud and helpless, accompanied by hot tears streaming down her round, rosy cheeks. Eragon felt sick to the very core of his being. This shouldn't be happening. It was_ wrong_.

"Boys next!"gushed the woman, plunging her hand – that fateful hand – into the other urn. Every muscle in Eragon's body tensed itself, like a wildcat about to spring upon its prey. He had to be sure that this was what he wanted for what he was about to do now was irreversible. But one look at Prim convinced him. No other inhabitant of District Twelve would have to suffer like that this year.

He would volunteer as tribute.

"Gale Hawthorn!"

Before Gale even had time to register his name, Eragon stuck his hand in the air and yelled: "I volunteer!" There. He'd done it. He felt strangely relieved. He'd done his part to make the world a better place, and what happened now was up to fate. Up to the gods to decide.

_If there even _are_ any gods in this wretched place_, he thought to himself as he climbed up the steps of the podium to stand beside Katniss, shoulders thrown back, hands clenched into fists. _What god could let a species kill its young for entertainement?_

Below, Gale was staring up at him with wordless thanks in his eyes. Eragon nodded to him, acknowledging his thanks, then turned his attention back to the peculiar woman who was prattling on about how "wonderful" it was to finally have a volunteer and how these were going to be "the best Hunger Games ever!"

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Eragon sat stiff-backed on a velvet couch. He was inside the Justice Building, where people had an hour to come and visit him before he left for the Capitol. He only knew the vague procedures of the Hunger Games, and wasn't much looking forward to being swept from one place to another without knowing what was going on. He sighed, then smiled as a touch of black humour sprang into his mind.

"At least," he muttered under his breath, "once I am in the arena things will get much easier."

The first and only people who came to visit him were Gale and his mother. Hazelle, Eragon remembered vaguely. He had seen her a couple of times before.

"I want to thank you," said Gale firmly. "For saving my life. I mean it. Thank you, Eragon. Really."

"You didn't have to do it, but you did," added his mother. "You sacrificed yourself to save Gale. I can't thank you enough, Eragon. I really can't." She reached out and placed her hand on his cheek. It was cool and dry. "You saved my son,"she whispered, tears brimming in her eyes.

Eragon smiled. "Thank you for your gratitude," he said gently. "Because of it, I don't regret my decision. But you know, I really think I can win in there. I don't want to have to kill Katniss, though." Gale and his mother both suddenly became serious and Eragon felt stupid. _How insensitive_ am _I? _he thought bitterly to himself. _They both obviously hold Katniss very dear. And I talk about killing her? Well done, Eragon, that was a blunder of heroic proportions._

"And I won't, of course," he added hastily. "I won't. I won't kill her." Gale just shrugged and Hazelle nodded half-heartedly, then the hour was up and Eragon was whisked away with Katniss. The woman from the reaping came along too, as well as Haymitch, who – Katniss explained to him – was to be their mentor in the Games. Apparently a mentor gave tributes advice and once they were in the actual arena, could send in useful gear, like food or medicine, using the money donated by sponsors. Eragon didn't understand everything and didn't particularly care. He didn't need a mentor to win the Hunger Games.

He needed his moral sense taken away and a good dose of inhumanity on the side, and perhaps then he would stand a chance.

They were soon at the station, and despite Katniss's explanations, Eragon still boggled at the strange objects everywhere – the shiny, beetle-like boxes people called "cameras", the horseless carriages known as "cars", and of course the sleek silver snake – the "train" – that would take them to the Capitol. There were a myriad of other curious things people seemed to take for granted, and Eragon felt that he would never get used to this place.

He suddenly felt very small, and very far from home.

**OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO**

Eragon's chambers were very luxurious, with a bedroom, private bathroom, and dressing area. The freaky woman who had carried out the reaping – he knew now that her name was Effie Trinket – told him to do as he pleased, just to be at supper in an hour. He decided to spend that hour working out how all the bizarre contraptions that filled his rooms worked – he really didn't want to ask somebody, even Katniss, and look like an idiot – and so was soon grinning blissfully as hot, steamy water pounded down on his shoulders and frothed at his feet. _Alagaësia _really_ needs one of these_, he thought. _Perhaps, once I get back – __if I get back –__ I could try using magic to make one… I wonder what Saphira would – _

He stopped himself there. He couldn't think about Saphira without feeling a wrenching, jagged pain in his chest, a pain that he knew was caused by no physical entity and so could not be healed that way. Several times already, in Alagaësia, he'd been seperated from her, but he'd always, deep in his core, known that he would see her again. But now, in this strange world, he _didn't _know that. And that was what, each time he thought about his beautiful blue dragon, his Saphira, caused his whole body to hurt.

Eragon flicked tears from his eyes, turned off the water and stepped out of the shower, leaving a foamy mass of bubbly froth to gurgle down the drain. Like his own hopes of returning to Alagaësia one day, disappearing, vanishing down the crevasse that had formed in his heart.

Supper was very good, delicious in fact, and it tasted even better than it should have done because Eragon was used to the meager and tasteless fare of District Twelve. But he could only manage a few bites before he laid his fork aside and stared miserably at the crisp green salad and steaming mashed potatoes heaped on his plate.

"What's wrong?" asked Effie Trinket in that infuriatingly cheerful and high-pitched voice of hers. "Pre-games stress?" She piled more salad onto her plate, stirred it around, then folded a leaf in two with her knife and fork before placing it delicately in her mouth.

"Something like that," replied Eragon, making abstract shapes in his mashed potato that had Effie frown. But the Hunger Games had nothing to do with his despondent mood. He still had Saphira in a corner of his mind, and even though he was trying not to think of her, memories kept bursting forth unbidden and unwanted into his mind's eye. When they'd swum together in the cool, turquoise waters of Leona Lake… When they'd merged consciousnesses and flown together as a single being… When they had realized in unison that the sky was hollow and the earth was round.

Eragon had to rub his eyes to keep his tears back. Episodes of depression like this had been common for the last two weeks, but never as bad as this one. He knew that sleep would not come easily tonight.

"I don't know _how _you can resist eating this food!" Katniss exclaimed, shovelling another five lamb chops into her mouth. "I know I couldn't. Particularly after District Twelve! Ugh, the meals there…"

Eragon had to smile at her efforts to cheer him up. She must have guessed that he was feeling homesick, even though that wasn't exactly it. Still, he wondered if there wasn't a part of truth in her words. She was onto her fourth helping of the third course and those lamb chops weren't exactly small.

"At least, you two have decent manners,"said Effie primly. "The pair last year ate everything with their hands like a couple of savages. It completely upset my digestion." Eragon saw Katniss frown then proceed to eat the rest of the meal with her fingers. He joined her. He'd seen enough examples of poverty the two weeks he'd lived in District Twelve to be annoyed by Effie's comment too.

After supper, they went into another compartement to watch the recap of the reapings across Panem. Eragon hadn't been looking forward to seeing his opponents – he'd been picturing frightened young children and toddlers, even though he knew they weren't going to be like that – and so was a little surprised at the muscle-bound giant shoving through the crowd to volunteer from District One. Katniss registered his surprise and said in a disgusted voice, "Career tributes. They've been preparing for this moment since they were little kids. It's always one of them who wins."

"I can see why," replied Eragon, raising an eyebrow. "Did the people of District One accidentally let one of their oxen loose?" Katniss laughed.

"Good joke," she said. "But One does luxury items for the Capitol. They don't need oxen for that. Otherwise I'd think you were right."

The reapings went on. Eragon's adversaries all varied in size and shape. There was a loping, wiry boy from District Two. A short girl from Three, whose hair shone black in the sunlight and whose eyes glinted with a menacing gleam. A slim, blonde-haired, dangerous-looking boy from District Four. The girl from District Five was muscular and had the same dark skin as Ajihad or Nasuada. The one from Six was smaller and a volunteer. The boy from District Seven was big and solid-looking, with broad shoulders and curly brown hair.

There was a tiny albino girl from District Eight, probably only four foot five and no older than twelve years old; her image remained imprinted on Eragon's retina.

As the boy from District Nine was reaped, Eragon started feeling drowsy. The room was warm and his stomach was full… Well, no, not exactly full but he really was very comfortable… And tired too…

He only realized he'd drifted off on Katniss's shoulder when she shook him awake as the anthem blared on the television at the end of the reaping.

"Catching up on your beauty sleep, I see?" she smiled, not entirely unmockingly. Eragon shot to his feet, embarrassement painting his cheeks in red. "Uh… yes," he blurted. "I'm going to bed." He bolted down the corridor to the safety of his chambers, his face burning.

Katniss had the same scent of crushed pine needles as Arya.

**OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO**

The next morning, Eragon dragged himself from the warm tangle of his duvet to the shower, where he washed himself with a strange liquid soap he found on the shelf in the cubicle. It smelt rather cloying, like there was a rose shoved up his nose. After the shower, he searched for some shaving things in the bathroom, but found nothing. It had been several weeks since he'd last shaved and now he couldn't even rely on the spell he'd devised to rid his face of stubble. A beard was starting to form and Eragon didn't like it, but he couldn't do anything about it now. Sighing, he dressed in a blue shirt, flannel jacket and black trousers, and made his way into the dining car.

He avoided eye contact with Katniss as he drew a chair and sat down, still embarrassed at what had happened the night before. Apart from her, he saw only Haymitch. Effie must have already eaten, he thought, as he picked up his knife and fork and tucked into the food piled in heaps before him. Eggs, ham, fruit, rolls, fried potatoes, orange juice… In any case, it tasted excellent. He gorged himself, filling his stomach where it had been left practically empty the night before.

"So, you're supposed to give us advice," said Katniss to Haymitch who sat at the end of the table, slugging back glass after glass of wine that he kept thinning with spirits. Eragon paused, half a roll in his hand, then resumed eating. He didn't really care whether Haymitch mentored them or not. He just wanted to find a way out of this hellish place (the shower _was _nice, though).

"Here's some advice. Stay alive," laughed Haymitch, reaching for his bottle. In a split-second, Katniss drove her knife between his hand and the bottle, and Eragon lunged out of his chair, grabbed Haymitch by the collar with one hand and slammed him up against the window of the train so hard that the glass shook.

"How about you change that to: 'of course, I'll give you some _great_ advice,' before I toss you out of this train," snarled Eragon, shocked by the extent of his own anger. He felt Katniss's hand on his shoulder and dropped Haymitch to the ground, wiping the hand that had been in contact with him on his jacket. He didn't know why he had reacted so violently. Hadn't he just been thinking that he didn't need his mentor?

No, he realized, he didn't care whether Haymitch mentored him or not. But Katniss was… well, she was just a girl, really. She was strong and fast and an amazing archer, but she had neither the extraordinary speed or strenght the spirit dragon had bestowed upon him at the Agaeti Blödhren. And all the tributes from earlier years, lost, dead, all of them, because of their drunkard of a mentor.

Haymitch calmly dusted himself down, emptied his glass and said, "Well, what's this? Did I actually get a pair of fighters this year?"

He turned to Katniss. "Can you hit anything with that knife besides a table?" She considered this, shrugged, ripped the knife out of the tabletop and hurled it at the wall. It wedged in the seam between two panels and Eragon raised an eyebrow in admiration. She wasn't bad at all.

"Stand over here," said Haymitch. "Both of you." They obeyed and he circled them, examining their faces and prodding their muscles, then declared: "Well, you're not entirely hopeless. Seem fit. And once the stylists get hold of you, you'll be attractive enough."

"Wha-" Eragon started to say, then sucked in a sharp breath as Katniss stomped discreetly on his foot, making his eyes water with pain. If Haymitch noticed the exchange he said nothing.

"All right, I'll make a deal with you," said their mentor. "You don't interfere with my drinking, and I'll stay sober enough to help you. But you have to do exactly what I say."

Eragon didn't much like the would-be deal, but he nodded reluctantly along with Katniss, who broke in, "So help us. When we get to the arena, what's the best strategy at the Cornucopia for someone –"

"One thing at a time," snapped Haymitch. "In a few minutes, we'll be pulling into the station. You'll be put in the hands of your stylists. You're not going to like what they do to you. But no matter what it is, don't resist."

Eragon winced inwardly. He _definitely _didn't like the sound of that_._

**OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO**

**Well well well, "Katniss had the same scent of crushed pine needles as Arya" you can guess what's gonna happen now can't you? That is, you can if you've read The Inheritance Cycle. It kind of makes sense for Katniss to smell of pine needles, though, with all that time she spends in the woods… At least that's what I thought. Anyway ciao now, don't forget to R&R!**


	4. Chapter 3

**And here is chapter 3! I'm not really convinced about it but tell me what you think anyway. There's gonna be two more chapters after this one: one for training and one for the interviews. And then: let the Hunger Games begin! Thanks a lot to Dragonnetic and er… Guest for their reviews. Happy Xmas to anyone who is reading this!**

**OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO**

The opening ceremonies

"No," growled Eragon.

Terril, a man whose every lock of hair was dyed a different colour and straightened into a point so that his head ressembled a multicoloured explosion, sighed.

"Eragon," he said in a tone that people normally employ to talk to a recalcitrant three-year old. "You must take off your trousers. It is not possible to properly prepare you for the opening ceremonies otherwise."

The other two members of Eragon's prep team nodded fervently and he felt his irritation for the three idiots mount. So far, they'd had him remove his shirt so that they could shave, polish, and do many other, often painful, things to his upper body. He'd had to fight to keep his pointed ears and had had to explain that his gedwëy ignasia was a scar that he'd had since birth, but now they wanted him to take off his trousers, and that was _not_ going to happen. It was already bad enough that they were sending him off to a fight to the death with twenty-three other children… Eragon clenched his teeth.

"What if I don't give a_ damn_ about the opening ceremonies?" he burst out angrily.

Aphrodite, a woman who had rows of tiny sparkling gems embedded in her skin over her eyebrows, along her jawline, down her forearms and across her collarbone, shrugged and said dejectedly to Terril, "Forget it, Terril. Let's go get Portia." His stylist. The three members of the prep team trudged forlornly out of the room and Eragon heaved a sigh of relief. He hadn't thought he'd be able to get rid of them.

He twisted his upper body around, trying to see what the prep team had done to him. They'd rubbed some kind of oil into his skin to make him extra shiny, and had camouflaged his gedwëy ignasia with a layer of makeup. They had also, he noticed, hidden his healing wounds by the means of carefully applied skin-coloured plasters. And they'd shaved his face.

He touched the injury in his side with the tips of his fingers. If only his half-brother Murtagh could be here now, with him… If only to share his pain. His homesickness. His loss…

His thoughts were disrupted as a slim woman with dark skin and short brown hair entered. Eragon, who hadn't known that Portia was a woman, was suddenly extremely glad that he'd kept his trousers on.

"So," she said. "You must be Eragon."

"Yes, that's me," he replied, loading his voice with as much sarcasm as he could.

She walked around him, examining him as she might an animal, inspecting him from head to toe. Then she looked back up at him.

"The prep team told me you made a scene."

"I don't know whether you can qualify refusing to get undressed in front of three complete _strangers_ as making a _scene_," replied Eragon, in the same tone he'd employed before.

Portia laughed slightly, which annoyed him, then said, "It doesn't matter. The outfit Cinna and I have prepared will cover nearly your entire body. Let's go and have lunch, and then you can try it on."

**OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO**

Eragon might have disliked the Capitol and it's inhabitants, but he wasn't at all displeased with the suit he was currently wearing. A matt black unitard, covering his entire body to the top of his neck; a pair of shiny leather boots that came to the middle of his calves; a cape of red, orange, and yellow streamers that Portia planned to set alight with a synthetic fire – Eragon wasn't really sure how fire, _Brisingr,_ could be synthetic, but didn't say anything – before his and Katniss's chariot left for the tour of the city, and its matching headpiece. It was supposed to reflect the "theme" of District Twelve – coal. Eragon, having already been down a mine and covered with the stuff, was fairly sure that coal was neither as romantic nor as spectacular as the stylists made it out to be, but he wasn't about to complain. He liked the suit.

Eragon's hair had been darkened so that it was nearly black and swept back from his forehead in a glossy, spiky arc. His face had been powdered by Portia's skillful hands, so that it was paler than usual, and was relatively clear of other makeup, save a few smudges of some dark substance on his eyelids and along his cheekbones. He looked powerful. Ruthless. Deadly.

But then, he reflected, that was the desired effect.

Katniss looked just as good as him, with minimal makeup on her face, just a few highlights here and there. They nodded to each other then climbed into their chariot, drawn by four jet-black horses. Eragon felt a hard ball of nerves form in the pit of his stomach and was reminded of when he and Saphira first arrived at Tronjheim, to parade through crowds of men and dwarves.

Saphira…

Where was she now?

He shook his head and just like that, the chariot was moving.

"Remember!" shouted Cinna, Katniss's stylist. "Heads high! Smiles. They're going to love you!"

Then he gestured something. Katniss frowned and turned to Eragon.

"What was that?"

"Er," said Eragon, embarrassed. "I think he wants us to hold hands."

Katniss shrugged and held out her hand to Eragon, who felt her fingers close around his.

The anthem was blasting through the streets as the chariot rolled slowly through the streets. Eragon winced; the music was _way _too loud for his sensitive hearing. Soon, though, the pain stabbing through his temples was replaced with exhilaraton as he and Katniss rode through the masses of people, too many to count, all chanting their names.

"Eragon!" they were yelling. "Katniss!"

Despite his best efforts at maintaining a cold, steely exterior, Eragon felt a grin slip onto his face as he caught sight of himself on one of the vast television screens dotted at regular intervals around the city. His face, shadowy and angled, glittered exotically in the light of the shimmery, flickering flames draped over his shoulders. He stood tall and powerful, his dark eyes gleaming, his back arrow-straight, his feet planted firmly apart on the chariot floor, every inch the Dragon Rider. He was magnificent. He was formidable. And above all, he was merciless.

Eragon felt a surge of elation in his chest and decided, what the hell, he could at least give a good show. He raised his free hand and waved to the crowd, provoking screams of excitement and a shower of flowers that rained down upon the chariot. He saw Katniss catch a red rose, sniff it, and blow a kiss back in the general direction of the person who had thrown it.

The chariot rolled on, the black horses tossing their heads and snorting. The sky was growing dark as the twenty-four tributes gathered in the City Circle in front of the president's mansion, and Eragon saw that as night fell, his and Katniss's costumes only grew brighter and more beautiful. They filled every television screen in Panem.

**OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO**

"Well," said Eragon to Katniss, "That wasn't too bad." They were in the corridor that led to their individual chambers in the Training Center, where they would stay until the Games began.

"Not_ bad_?" exclaimed Katniss, hand on her door handle. "It was amazing. We outshone everyone!"

"I suppose so," laughed Eragon, amused by her enthusiasm. "It was actually more fun than what I was expecting."

"Yeah, I agree," replied Katniss. "I got kind of carried away, I think."

"No, you did fine," Eragon reassured her.

They stood in silence for a few moments, then Katniss yawned and opened the door. "I'm going to bed. Big day tomorrow. Training."

"Yes, you're right," he nodded, moving away. "Goodnight, Katniss."

"Goodnight, Eragon."

**OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO**

**That was quite a short chapter but don't worry, the next one will be bigger and better! So, I might not update for a few days. But I will this week, don't worry! Ciao amigos! Don't forget to review on the way out.**


	5. Chapter 4

**And here is the long-awaited chapter four! I'm really pleased with it, and it's quite long. But first I must answer a few of the reviews that I got (because I'm a polite person). So:**

**\- First off, I would like to thank Dragonnetic for his/her continued support and reviews. Recently, he/she pointed out that if Eragon couldn't use magic WITH the AL (Ancient Language), well, what about without it? Good point, Dragonnetic. So, I PMed him/her to explain, but I should probably do so for the rest of you. Well, my explanation is that there is basically no wild magic in Panem for Eragon to tap into, unlike in Alagaësia. I'm too lazy to think up anything else. Sorry, Paolini fans!**

**\- Secondly, a reviewer named Madhatter said (or rather, wrote) that they were surprised Eragon had fallen for someone so quickly after losing pretty much his entire life. Well, Madhatter, you're quite right. It's not plausible at all. BUT (with me, there's always a but) we don't know if he has actually fallen for Katniss at all, do we? All we know is that her smell reminds him of Arya. And that he was in love with Arya before (previously, on_ Inheritance Cycle Romance…_) So, kids, moral of the story is: If some creepy, pointy-eared perv comes up to you and tells you that he likes the way you smell, you run. Or you drench him in pepper spray. Your choice.**

**Now, on with the fanfic!**

**OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO**

Training

"So," said Haymitch. "Let's get down to business. Training. First off, if you like, I'll coach you separately. Decide now."

He, Katniss and Eragon were eating breakfast in the dining room of their appartement in the Training Center. The table was heavy with food and Eragon had stuffed himself, knowing that it wouldn't be so easy to get a meal in the arena. Effie was nowhere to be seen.

"Why would you coach us separately?" asked Katniss.

"Say if you had a secret skill you might not want the other to know about," replied Haymitch, swigging a glass of spirits. Eragon wrinkled his nose at the strong smell, and shrugged. "I don't mind you knowing what I'm good at," he said to Katniss. "And I already know you're a great archer."

"You can coach us together," Katniss told Haymitch.

"All right," he said. "So give me some idea of what you can do."

"Well," said Eragon, pushing his plate away and patting his stomach in a satisfied way. "I'm as good an archer as Katniss, as it happens. But my field of predilection is swordsmanship; I'm really excellent at that. I'm also not bad at hand-to-hand combat."

Haymitch raised a bushy eyebrow. "Swordsmanship, hmm?" To Eragon's relief, he didn't press the subject, instead said, "Well, that's not a bad combination of talents. Being able to take down your ennemies at a distance is handy, but it's also important to be capable of close combat." Then he turned to Katniss. "I already know you're handy with a knife. And, according to Eragon, a bow."

"That's right," she replied. "I don't really know how to use anything else, though."

"And are you particularly good with any of them?"

Katniss appeared to consider this. "Not really with a knife," she said finally. "I'm all right with a bow."

"You're not _all right_," said Eragon incredulously. "You're one of the best damn archers I've ever seen." Katniss blushed and looked down at her plate. "Yeah, maybye," she replied in an embarrassed voice.

"Well," said Haymitch. "Well, well, well. Katniss, there's no guarantee there'll be bows and arrows in the arena, but during your private session with the Gamemakers, show them what you can do. Until then, stay clear of archery. Are you any good at trapping?"

"I know a few basic snares."

"That may be significant in terms of food. And Eragon, I also want you to stay away from swords and bows. The plan's the same for both of you. You go to group training. Spend the time trying to learn something you don't know. Throw a spear. Swing a mace-"

"I already know how to do those two things," interrupted Eragon.

Katniss turned to stare at him skeptically.

"Nah, it was a joke," he added. "I don't, actually."

Haymitch shot him a dirty look and said, "When you've quite finished with the humour, Eragon… I want you both to save showing what you're best at until your private sessions. And one last thing. In public, I want you by each other's side every minute."

"Why?" asked Katniss.

"You agreed to do as I said," drawled Haymitch. "I think that's all you really need to know. You will be together, you will appear amiable to each other. Now get out. Meet Effie at the elevator at ten for training."

**OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO**

Eragon was making his way back to his rooms to wait – after all, it was barely quarter past nine and Haymitch had said to be ready for ten – when Katniss appeared to materialize in front of him and leaned against his doorframe, blocking his way. He gave her a puzzled look.

"My field of predilection is swordsmanship; I'm really excellent at that," she said by means of explanation in what he assumed was a mimic of his voice. "Hmm. I don't seem to remember there being any swords in District Twelve. But then, you're from _a land very far away_, aren't you?" She raised an inquisitive eyebrow.

"What does it matter to you that I'm good at fighting or not?" said Eragon, trying to duck beneath her arm, but failing. "Come on, Katniss. Let me past."

"All I want to know is how you came to be apparently so good with a sword," she said. "I don't like mysteries. I guess you could say I have a naturally curious nature."

"I guess you could say you're downright nosy," muttered Eragon, but relented. Sighing, he said, "OK, I guess I don't see what harm it can do. Come on in. It's going to take a while."

Once they were both in his room, he shut the door and sat down on the bed beside Katniss.

"You know," he said slightly hesitantly, "this – what I'm about to tell you – is really important to me. So… don't make fun, or joke around, or…" He stopped, unsure how to carry on.

But Katniss nodded, an expression of understanding on her face. She put a hand on his arm. "It's OK, Eragon," she said gently. "I know what you mean. Don't worry. I'll take you seriously."

"Thank you," he replied gratefully. "Well, then, here goes. You already know I'm not from Panem. That I'm from a land called Alagaësia. I… look, I really don't know how to explain this. You see… In Alagaësia, there is a species called dragons. They're… well, they're very big, and they have scales, and wings, and they can breathe fire."

"_What?_" Katniss immediately clapped a hand over her mouth. "Sorry," she said. Eragon laughed slightly.

"It doesn't matter," he replied. "I'd find it hard to believe too. But it's the truth. In Alagaësia, there are dragons. At least, there _were_ dragons. When I was born, they were practically a myth. Well, not exactly them – their riders. The Dragon Riders. They were deeply bonded with their dragons, able to communicate with them by thought and use magic – for example, they could throw fire from their hands, or accomplish feats of strenght beyond the ability of normal men. They were a kind of order, keeping peace in Alagaësia, helping the poor, you know. But then… Listen, it's really hard trying to sum up hundreds of years of history in a few sentences, so I'll just say that this man named Galbatorix defeated the Riders and their dragons, and proclaimed himself as king of Alagaësia. He lived for an unnaturally long time, as he himself was a Rider, and his lifespan was boosted by the magic in his veins. He did a lot of cruel things and it's fair to say that he was a tyrant. So, I was originally just a farm boy, and I got possession of one of the few dragon eggs that remained in Alagaësia. Long story. I became a Rider, and it was my destiny to slay Galbatorix. So I trained with the elves – a race that ressembles humans, but with a longer lifespan, pointed ears, and far surpassing humans in terms of athletic ability. Also, they can use magic naturally. During my training, I was blessed by a spirit dragon and became half an elf myself." Here Eragon touched his long ears. "I fought a lot, and was injured many times. It was a very long, very hard struggle, but in the end I killed Galbatorix. However, during his death throes, he cast a spell upon me, a kind of teleportation spell I assume, because the next thing I knew I was in the forest outside District Twelve. Then I found you, and, well, you know the rest."

Eragon stopped, feeling slightly self-conscious, and studied Katniss's face. She seemed surprisingly calm, and appeared to be thinking.

Finally she said, "So that's how you're apparently so good at swordfighting. And archery."

"Yes," replied Eragon, a bit taken aback that she believed him.

"And that's why you were so strangely dressed when I first met you. And so beaten up."

"Yes again."

"Can you use magic here?"

"No. I tried, but it didn't work."

Katniss bit her lip and frowned slightly. "You said you were a Rider. Where's your dragon?"

Eragon felt his breath catch in his throat. He had been trying to not think about Saphira. "I assume she wasn't affected by Galbatorix's spell, and stayed in Alagaësia," he said as evenly as possible.

"But you said dragons and their Riders were deeply bonded. Don't you… don't you miss her?"

Eragon felt tears prick at his eyes, and swallowed hard. He couldn't blame Katniss. She didn't know how deep that bond ran.

"I do," he whispered, digging his nails into his palm to keep from weeping. "I do every day. Every hour. All the time."

He felt Katniss's hand on his shoulder. "I'm so sorry, Eragon," she said quietly. "I didn't know. I shouldn't have asked."

"No," he choked out, wiping his eyes. "It's not your fault. You didn't know."

"All the same…"

"No," he repeated, more firmly. "You didn't know."

Then he buried his face in his hands. "But I miss her so much," he murmured, his voice muffled. "So much."

Katniss wrapped her arms around him and rested her head on his shoulder. "I'm so sorry," she said again, softly.

Eragon found the smell of pine needles comforting, like a memory of the past, a remembrance of quiet, sunlit days spent in Du Weldenvarden, or of moonlight-filled nights. A link to Alagaësia.

To his home.

"Thank you," he whispered.

**OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO**

Eragon would have liked nothing more than to stay in his room all day with Katniss – there was something deeply soothing about her, and he always felt closest to his homeland when he was with her – but he had to go to training, even though he did not need it in the slightest. So that was how he ended up in the Training Room, a huge gymnasium packed with various obstacle courses and weapons. While someone pinned a paper with 12 written on it to his back, Eragon checked out the other tributes who were all already there, gathered into a tense, aggressive-feeling knot. They were all pretty unremarkable, apart from three who stuck in his mind.

The first was the boy from District One, the big tribute that Eragon had compared to an oxen. He looked to be about eighteen, and was at least six foot five in height, with massive bulging muscles. His biceps were as large as melons, and his chest muscles were each the size of a big pillow. And as if all that wasn't frightening enough, a tattoo of a stylized, fiery dragon reared up from beneath his string vest over his left shoulderblade before writhing up his neck and breathing a burst of flame across his cheek. Eragon shuddered. If any of the tributes ressembled a Kull, it was this one.

Next was the blond boy fom four. He was a lot smaller than the giant from One, about Eragon's size, and quite thin. He seemed to be harmless, but his face gave him away. His mouth was twisted into a confident smirk, and his black eyes glittered with eager menace. He was dangerous. Very dangerous. Of that Eragon had no doubt.

The last one to be noticed by him was the albino girl from District Eight. She really was tiny, about four foot five, and thin. Her hair was bleached like her skin and her large, slightly slanted eyes were a pale reddish-pink. She couldn't be any older than twelve years old. Eragon knew that she wouldn't stand a chance once the Games began.

After the head trainer had finished explaining the rules of training, Eragon nudged Katniss. "Where would you like to start?"

Katniss shrugged. "I don't know… Practice using a new weapon, like Haymitch said?"

"OK, sure. What weapon, then? Mace? Spear? Axe?"

"Um… Axe, why not."

They made their way over to that station, which already had quite a crowd . Halfway through the lesson, Eragon started getting distracted by the male tribute from One, who had just smashed a dummy's head off with an enormous spiked club that must have weighed easily twenty kilos and sent it flying across the Training Room. _Blaze._That was his name. Eragon remembered it now.

The days wore by, a blend of different stations, of knifes and snares and medicinal plants. Halfway through each day, the tributes stopped for lunch, and Eragon and Katniss kept up their cheery banter, which by now was starting to exhaust both of them. In fact, Eragon was exhausted by everything: the training, the food, the tributes. He was fed up with this place. Frustrated.

At lunch on the third day, it was time for their private sessions with the Gamemakers. Eragon knew that he would be the penultimate tribute to pass, and so stayed in the dining room with Katniss, who had slipped into a tense silence. He didn't exactly relish the hours of waiting as the tributes were called one by one, and so was actually relieved when it was his turn. He got up, shaky with adrenaline.

"Good luck," said Katniss.

"You too. Have fun," said Eragon, stress loading his words with a sarcasm he didn't mean. He left the room feeling bad, which didn't help his mood.

The Gamemakers looked profoundly bored as he stepped into the Training Room, the remains of a feast laid out on the table in front of them that they were still picking at. Barely any noticed his presence, it seemed to him. Eragon cracked his knuckles and walked over to the swords, racks and racks of them laid out against the wall. Long, short, straight, curved… He picked one out that matched Brisingr in size and shape before realizing that he didn't have an opponent. He cleared his throat and said, "Excuse me, I need a partner to fight with."

The Gamemakers were deep in conversation and didn't hear him, so Eragon repeated, loudly, almost shouting: "I need a partner!" They looked over to him and one or two apologized, then they sent over a member of staff to assist him, a tall, lean, wiry man with a curly black beard who picked up a sword and saluted Eragon before attacking. Eragon was slightly taken aback at the sudden offensive but his weeks of training with Oromis kicked in and he brought up his own sword to parry, neatly knocking the other man's weapon away. Then he ducked around behind him, light on his feet, and when his opponent turned to face him, his arm snaked out and connected with the man's sword just beneath the crossguard, sending it spiralling out of his hand and clattering to the floor. Eragon raised an eyebrow, not even slightly out of breath. "Is that all you've got?"

The man flushed and muttered something indistinct about warming up before going to retrieve his sword. Eragon felt slightly bad about humiliating him, especially when he remembered his many bitter defeats at the hands of Vanir the elf in Du Weldenvarden, but shook it off as the man attacked again. His blows were stronger this time and came more swiftly, and Eragon recognized a man skilled with the blade beyond the abilities of a normal soldier – a bit more and he equalled Brom or even perhaps Murtagh – but there was a fundamental difference between them, a difference that was less in their individual techniques, even though that did have some part to play, but in their bodies. His opponent had the body of a human and Eragon had the body of an elf, and it was for that reason that none of their combats lasted more than a minute, the longest ending at forty-five seconds. The man grew flustered and out of breath, and his skin became shiny with perspiration, whereas Eragon remained cool, calm, and collected, watching for flaws in his enemy's technique and ruthlessly using them against him, each time sending his blade to wrench or bash that of the man's out of his hand and skittering across the floor.

When the Gamemakers eventually gave the signal for Eragon to finish, he knocked his opponent's sword away and couldn't quite resist tapping the man on the chest with the tip of his own and saying in a voice that sounded a lot like one that he had heard many, many times before in a forest very far away, in another land, at another time, when he was still young and inexperienced, not yet a kingkiller, or a tribute in the Hunger Games.

"Dead."

**OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO**

**And that's that! I hope you liked it. I have to admit, I was pretty pleased with that finishing paragraph: "Dead." Lol. Eragon can be a thug life when he wants to be. Anyway, don't forget to review, and I'll update soon, probably in three or four days. **

**Happy New Year and see you soon!**


	6. Chapter 5

**New chapter! Probably the last for a long time, as school (ugh) is starting next week and soon after I have some mock exams which _will_ be fun, but anyway my point is that what with the homework and the revision, it will be loads harder to post these chapters frequently. Maybe one every two weeks or so. I'm sorry, but that's the way it is, and I'm not giving up on this fanfic! So all you have to do is be patient. Sorry again. Remember to review this chapter. Now, happy reading! (Oh and because I forgot to do it in my last chapter, here's a disclaimer: I own nothing. Yep, I was in a hurry when I wrote this.)**

**OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO**

The interviews

Eragon couldn't say that he was surprised at the eleven he pulled off in training. He didn't know what Katniss had done until she told everyone at dinner that she'd shot an arrow at the Gamemakers – which he kind of wished he'd done himself – and so he assumed she'd get a 2 or a 3, perhaps a 4 at most, but she got an eleven too. Effie was practically skipping with joy, he remembered with some amusement, as he pulled the covers over his head and closed his eyes. It had been a long and frankly quite emotional day, and all the stress, excitement and adrenaline that had been pumping through him for hours had now vanished, leaving him feeling wrung-out and bone-weary. He fell asleep at once, into a deep, dreamless slumber.

**OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO**

The day started for Eragon as it always did: with Effie banging on his door, yelling cheerfully about how _big, big, big _this day was going to be. Then a shower, which had become a traumatic experience since he'd somehow locked the settings onto a frothy orange-smelling foam that forced him to shower for only as long as he could hold his breath, and breakfast. Tomorrow were the interviews and so today was the practice, as Haymitch explained over the rim of his glass of whisky.

"You'll each have four hours with Effie for presentation and four with me for content," he said, slurping his beverage. Eragon wrinkled his nose; did the man _never _stop drinking? "You start with Effie, Katniss." Eragon shot her a sympathetic glance as she followed Effie out of the dining room. He couldn't imagine anything worse than spending four actual hours with the crazed woman. Well, he shrugged to himself as Haymitch led him to the sitting room, spending four hours with _him _wasn't going to be much fun, either.

For a while, Haymitch just sat and stared at Eragon, who grew more and more uncomfortable beneath his unwavering gaze. Finally he said, "Er… What are you doing?"

"I'm working out how to present you," replied Haymitch. "I already know we're not going to go for the kind or humble type. Sure, you volunteered as tribute, but that doesn't mean you did it out of pity. Maybye you wanted to steal the other guy's fame."

"Gale," Eragon automatically corrected him. "That's his name. And no, I didn't volunteer for fame or for glory, but to save his life."

"Who gives a damn about that?" growled Haymitch, banging his fist onto the coffee table. "It's all fake. You might be nice and gentle and bunny-loving in real life, but not here, because you've got the face and the attitude of a fighter. Do you honestly think the people who saw you on the chariot that first night thought, 'Gee, he looks really friendly and caring'? No, they thought, 'Well I sure as hell wouldn't like to end up in the arena with him because he looks bloody lethal'."

"Stop it, I'll blush," Eragon snapped back at him.

"So," continued Haymitch, ignoring Eragon's remark, "we're probably going to go for something along the lines of arrogant or aggressive. Maybye cocky. I don't know yet. So I'll be the interviewer and you answer my questions, trying to stick to one of those profiles, and we'll see how we end up."

He asked Eragon a lot of questions about his family, his feelings about being a tribute in the Hunger Games, why he volunteered, etcetera. The family questions were hardest for Eragon because he had to make something up that didn't betray the fact that he was from another world, but he managed fairly well, and when it was time for lunch Haymitch was in a good mood and decided they'd go for: "Arrogant, slightly cocky, no aggression. Act like you're above them all, and you don't understand why there is even the slightest doubt that you might not win."

Eragon was just cutting into a potato when Katniss stormed into the dining room, her dress hiked up almost around her waist, looking like a human-shaped thunderstorm, complete with lightning and strong winds. He hesitantly said, unsure whether he was unknowingly committing suicide, "Umm… I take it the lesson didn't go too well."

"Not well _at all,_" snarled Katniss, sitting down violently and grabbing a hunk of bread from a bowl. "Effie expects me to act like a Capitol _lady – _" she said this word as sarcastically as she could "– born and bred, when the most feminine thing I've done in my whole life is gut a wild boar. Oh yes, it went marvellously, really." She ripped into the bread angrily, leaving Eragon to finish his meal discreetly and leave with Effie half an hour later, dreading the next four hours.

As it turned out, it didn't go to badly. Effie lectured him on the best ways to sit and smile and stand, having him say hundreds of trivial sentences – "Thank you very much", "Yes please", "Of course", "How delightful", which Eragon really didn't see how he was going to manage with the profile Haymitch had chosen for him, but went along with. Effie's conclusion was that he was "really very charming when you want to be, and naturally confident and self-possessed." Eragon didn't see how he was going to fit the "charming" part in either, but made no comment. Besides, it was too late now.

That evening, Katniss didn't eat dinner with the rest of them. Instead, Eragon heard her screaming and smashing plates around her room, and was just going to see what the matter was – he already had a clue in that Haymitch had been as sour as an old lemon during the meal – when the man himself grabbed Eragon by the arm as he was leaving the dining room.

"Eragon," he said, somewhat urgently. "We need to talk."

"Oh, do you think?" Eragon replied sardonically, shrugging off his hand. "I actually think so too, because it sounds like Katniss is ripping up her bedroom as we speak." As if on cue, there was an enormous smash down the corridor. "Something to do with you, perhaps?"

"Yes," snapped Haymitch. "Exactly right. You seem to like her, Eragon, so you won't be pleased to hear that she's going to die out there in the arena, not from the other tributes, but most _likely_ from her lack of sponsors. I couldn't find any profile for her. She comes across sullen, hostile, angry, bitter, unfriendly–"

"All right, all right, I get the picture," Eragon interrupted. "So what does all this have to do with_ me_?"

"Well, said Haymitch. "You _do _have a profile. People are going to like you, you'll get sponsors because you'll seem completely sure of your victory. So, I thought that what Katniss needs is a bit of your success, and then at least she'll have a chance. Everybody knows that people of the Capitol love romance, love stories, all that stupid guff. So–"

"I don't like where this is going," warned Eragon.

"You're going to have to like it, son, whether you want to or not. What you are going to do, tomorrow night, during your interview, is say that you've been in love with Katniss all along. Not directly. Just drop hints until it becomes clear. Trust me, people are crazy about that stuff. The star-crossed lovers of District Twelve."

Eragon thought about it but his answer was already clear in his mind. If he was completely honest with himself, he did love Katniss. But he didn't want to fake it. He didn't want every person in the Capitol to know. So even though he knew it was deeply selfish of him to do so, he shook his head and said firmly, "I'm sorry, but no."

**OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO**

The next day, Eragon awoke to see the three grinning faces of his prep team hanging over him, which almost caused him to have a heart attack. He yelled and leaped backwards, banging the back of his skull on the headboard.

"What are you_ doing_ here?" he asked indignantly, rubbing the sore patch on his scalp. "Weren't you supposed to come later? It's seven in the bloody morning."

"No no, dear, we want to maximize our time with you," said Aphrodite in a soothing voice, grabbing his arm and sending him sprawling onto the floor. "You and Katniss really stood out in the opening ceremonies. It'd be a shame to waste all that time and effort, wouldn't it?"

Eragon closed his eyes, sighed, and prepared himself for the hours to come.

First, the prep team shaved him again, then stencilled shimmering gold flame designs up his neck and across his cheeks. They didn't go OTT with the powdering of his face this time, just applied the minimum for him to stand out on screen. Then they recreated the hairstyle he'd had during the opening ceremonies, but this time left a thick lock of hair hanging over one eye. Finally, they added finishing touches: darkening his eyebrows, applying shadowy makeup around his eyes so as to make them appear more exotic, dabbing smudges of substance here and there on his face for whatever reason only they knew.

At the end of the afternoon, when Eragon was feeling sore and tired and bored out of his mind from standing upright for hours on end, they stepped back and admired their work.

"It's wonderful!" cried Aphrodite, clapping her hands together.

"A work of art," added Kirine, a woman whose eyes had been altered to ressemble a cat's and whose hair was pure white and floated down to her thighs.

"Well done, team!" exclaimed Terril. "Group hug!" They embraced, leaving Eragon standing in the middle of the room, feeling awkward and wanting nothing more than to be rid of these people.

Then Portia entered, holding a suit slung over one arm.

"This is your outfit, Eragon," she said, holding it up. "Do you like it?"

The suit was simple compared to the one Eragon had worn during the opening ceremonies. It was a matt, velvety black with curls of glittering flames twisting up the arms, up the legs, and blooming up the back. It was simple, yes, but beautiful, and Eragon thought that as suits went, he could have got worse.

"Yes, it's very nice," he replied. "Shall I put it on?"

This brought the wrath of the prep team down on his head.

"No, no, NO!" shrieked Kirine, holding her hands up in the air in shock. "You'd make a mess of it, my dear! Imagine letting you do_ that_!" The other members of the team seemed just as horrified, flapping their hands around and gasping with outrage and distress. Eragon rolled his eyes, finding that his patience with these three was wearing thin.

"I can get _dressed _by myself, you know," he snapped. "Very well, put it on me then, but by all the gods, _hurry up with it._"

**OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO**

About a half-hour later, Eragon was standing in the elevator with Effie, Haymitch, Katniss – who looked stunning in a dress encrusted with flickering flame-coloured gems – and her prep team, Cinna – Katniss's stylist – his own prep team and Portia. As if in a blur, Eragon felt the elevator rise, the doors open, saw himself walk over to his seat. He wasn't stressed or panicked, but the whole scene was so unrealistic he felt like he was in a dream. Was he really about to be interviewed by the inhabitant of another world? It felt absurd. Surreal. He was almost tempted to laugh. He would have done if he hadn't been broadcast to the entire nation.

The man who would be interviewing the tributes looked frightening with his painted pure-white face and dark blue hair, eyelids and lips. Eragon really didn't understand these peoples's taste in fashion: it was almost as if they actually _wanted_ to look as freakish as possible. He shook his head quietly to himself, wondering for the umpteenth time what he'd fallen into. Hell, it seemed.

After a few jokes, the man – Eragon found out from a discreet exchange with Katniss that his name was Caesar Flickerman, a name that was strange but suited him quite well – sat down and the first tribute was called up to the stage, the girl from District One, small and unremarkable compared to her male counterpart. She seemed shy, but Caesar put her at ease and soon the interview was finished and the next tribute was walking up to the podium.

Blaze looked absolutely terrifying in a tattered outfit of leather, fur, and pieces of rusted metal studded with enormous spikes. The whole thing must have weighed fifteen kilos but you wouldn't guess it from his arrogant swagger as he mounted the steps and sat down facing Caesar, cracking his knuckles and rolling his neck, his dragon tattoo gleaming almost lifelike in the light of the burning projectors. Eragon was reminded of the tattoo belonging to the two elves in the Agaeti Blödhren that had come alive and granted him his elven skills and appearance.

As it turned out, Blaze was less arrogance than aggression, snarling out answers at Caesar, flexing his fists as if he could barely refrain from ripping his throat out, almost hanging off the edge of his seat to get closer to him. Caesar didn't once flinch, which impressed Eragon. Maybe there was more steel in these Capitol people than he'd guessed.

The tributes rolled by, some witty, some mysterious, some cocky… Eragon learned that the blond boy from Four, who was dressed in a skintight outfit etched with silvery-green scales with a transluscent crest running down his back, was named Sharker. The tiny albino girl from Eight who wore a simple white dress of cotton woven with silver strands that made her look ethereal was called Fay, a name that really suited her, Eragon thought. All in all, he only spotted four that would be potentially dangerous. Blaze, of course, and Sharker, who despite the jokes he'd cracked up on stage and the jovial smile plastered onto his sharp face, exuded an impression of pure menace that was perhaps more subtle than Blaze but just as potent. Then there was Gaia, of District Seven, a tall, slim girl who seemed quiet and withdrawn but whose answers to Caesar's questions were fired out quickly and without hesitation, letting Eragon believe that there was more to her than met the eye. And finally there was Zuleika, of District Ten, a muscular girl, about fourteen years old, with deeply tanned skin and a thick scar on her left cheek.

Then it was Katniss's turn. Eragon watched as she walked up to the podium, beautiful in her bejewelled dress, and sat down, answering Caesar's questions hesitantly at first, then more confidently. She completely charmed the crowd, spinning in her shimmering dress, appearing to be engulfed in flame. She got a huge cheer from the audience, and as she regained her seat Eragon whispered, "Nicely done." At least he tried to. His mouth was so dry it came out as a panic-filled squeak.

He got to his feet, taking deep breaths to calm himself. He'd always hated speeches. He remembered speaking at Roran and Katrina's wedding and actually felt dizzy with nerves. _But this isn't a speech, Eragon,_ he told himself as he walked up the steps to the stage. _It's an interview. Not the same thing. All I have to do is answer Caesar's questions. And, ideally, remember to breathe._ He sat down at the seat, shook Caesar's hand, and then folded his own in his lap to appear calm and in control.

"So, Eragon," said Caesar in a confident voice. "Tribute from District Twelve. Not only tribute, _volunteer._ Tell us, why did you put up your hand to take the other boy's place on that reaping day?"

"I um…" Eragon scrabbled for an answer before remembering Haymitch's instructions: "_Act like you're above them all, and you don't understand why there is even the slightest doubt that you might not win." _He smirked, and said in what he hoped was an arrogant, assured voice, "Well, I really didn't want him to steal my glory. I mean, it's not like I'll lose, is it? It's a certainty I'll be the last tribute standing in the arena. So, the real question is: Why should I have _not _put up my hand?" Caesar laughed along with most of the audience, and Eragon felt relieved. This was going to be easier than he'd originally thought.

"Fair enough," Caesar replied. "But what about that miracle score, eleven, that you pulled in training? Surely you can tell us more about that."

"Of course," said Eragon smugly. "It was simple. I just was myself, and I guess that the Gamemakers thought that was good enough. Didn't have to do anything fancy." This time everybody laughed, and Caesar rolled out his next question.

"You really were magnificent in that chariot," he said, smiling. "Did you like the suit? What did you think about it?"

"A man's clothes are the reflection of his mind is all I can say," replied Eragon, leaning back in his seat and crossing his arms behind his head. "Let's hope you all understand what I mean by that." More laughter from the crowd. Caesar shook his head jovially, as if to say, _who can believe this guy's arrogance?_ It was precisely the response that Eragon had been looking for.

"After this night's interview, you'll have sponsors lining up in their hundreds to sponsor you," he laughed. "How ever did you gain such a confidence, being from District Twelve? Not that I have anything against it. It's just more _removed_ from the Capitol than say, One or Two." This also caused general mirth and Eragon felt a flash of irritation.

"Oh, I think your opinions will change after seeing me in the arena," he sneered. "Just because I'm from Twelve doesn't mean that I don't know how to rip people's guts out." A few titters of nervous laughter was all he got this time. People didn't like being reminded of the brutality in the arena – seeing it on a screen was fine, but when it was an actual, material person who spoke of it, it all got too real.

The buzzer sounded as Caesar proclaimed, "Best of luck, Eragon Bromsson, tribute from District Twelve!"

**OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO**

**And that's that! For those of you who are wondering why it's Eragon _Bromsson _and not Eragon _Shadeslayer,_ Eragon picked the name Bromsson for Madge to enter him in the population list of District Twelve because it sounds less exotic than Shadeslayer. I wonder why. **

**Anyway, happy New Year!**


	7. Chapter 6

**Chapter six already! Probably the last one in a while. Sorry** about** that. But anyway, I'm quite pleased with this one, even though it's short by my standards (only about 2 100 words long, not counting the author's notes). Disclaimer: I own neither Eragon, nor Katniss, nor their respective attributes, nor the idea for the story, that is I own the idea of Eragon falling into Panem but not of the Hunger Games… OK, basically, I OWN NOTHING.**

**Seeing as I haven't got much else to say, enjoy!**

**OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO**

The Games begin

That night, Eragon couldn't sleep. He tossed and turned in his bed, unable to get comfortable. Finally he kicked the duvet into a tangle at his feet and lay there gazing up at the ceiling, imagining stars and sky where there was only pale white plaster. He found it hard to think that this time tomorrow he would be fighting for his life. Maybe he would have already killed a tribute. Two, even. Three. He just had to lie there, and breathe, and dawn would find him, bringing with it the promise of fear and blood and death.

**OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO**

He must have drifted off at some point, because the next thing he knew he was awake, the windows were still dark, and there was someone knocking at his door. He sat up quickly, ran a hand through his hair, and went to open it.

It was Katniss standing there, fully clothed, fully awake, for all the world as if she'd been up and about for hours. Eragon stared at her blearily for a few seconds, then his sleep-muddled brain processed her and he said, "Katniss?"

"Good morning," she replied. "Sorry to bother you. Only I couldn't sleep. I keep thinking about the arena, and the other tributes, and whether this time tomorrow I'll still be alive…"

Eragon blinked. "Um," he said. "Thanks for that. Now I really feel like I'll be able to sleep well, too. Katniss, what _time_ is it, exactly?" She shrugged, and said dismissively, "Don't know. Don't really care. All I want is for morning to come so I don't have to think about all this any more. Just do what I have to do, some _action, _you know? I just want to be in the arena, for all this to be over, one way or another."

"Well, one way for that to happen is for you to go back to bed and try to sleep. It's not that I don't want to talk to you," explained Eragon, "but I'm fairly sure that it's better to be rested before being dumped into an arena with twenty-two other people who want to kill you. Trust me, you'll want that extra sleep tomorrow."

"Twenty-two other people," repeated Katniss, then looked up at him. "You don't want to kill me?"

"_Of course _I don't want to kill you," snapped Eragon, unable to believe how ridiculous she was being. "I wouldn't be standing here talking to you if I did. It's not like we're exactly _enemies_, is it?"

"No," she snapped back, "but we're not exactly _friends_, either. I mean, this time tomorrow, I'll be supposed to kill you, won't I? And you'll be supposed to kill me. And as you said, there will be twenty-two other tributes in the mix who won't be picky about who they want to kill, so excuse me for not thinking that a healthy relationship can develop on that."

"Look, Katniss," Eragon growled, close to losing his last scraps of patience, "You might want to kill _me_, but I don't want to kill _you_. I hope that's clear now, because I can't explain it any better. Now I'm going to go and sleep, because I want to be able to defend myself tomorrow when you come at me with a bow and arrow and the intention of shooting me in the stomach or chest or somewhere else that will leave me dead or dying, OK?" He slammed the door shut but she stuck her foot through and held it ajar.

"Eragon," she said through the crack. "I don't want to kill you. I never _have_ wanted to kill you. All I meant is that there is no way we can become true friends when we are forced to be enemies. That's really all I meant. I'm sorry if you thought otherwise. Now goodnight. And, since I guess this is the last time we'll see each other as _friends_, good luck." Then she withdrew her foot, the door closed, and Eragon was left wishing that he had been able to wish her good luck, too.

But she was gone.

**OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO**

The next morning, Eragon was woken by Portia, who gave him a simple pair of cotton trousers and a shirt of the same material to wear. "Is this all there is?" said Eragon sarcastically, feeling grouchy after his late-night conversation – or rather argument – with Katniss. "No flames? No gold? No glitter? Well, I'm disappointed."

Then Portia took him up onto the roof of the Training Center, where an enormous machine emerged from the sky, silently ominous. Eragon didn't know how it could fly, as it wasn't alive and had no wings, but he'd long since learned not to question the ways of this strange world. And it got stranger, as a long gleaming ladder emerged from the monster's belly that Portia told him to hang onto. Eragon found, as his hands touched the metal, that he couldn't move as the ladder lifted him up into the machine itself. He tried not to panic when a woman walked over to him, holding a long needle.

"This is your tracker, Eragon," she said in a calm, soothing voice. "Keep still so I can place it without hurting you." She stabbed the needle into his arm, pressed hard on the plunger of the syringe. Eragon felt a flash of sharp pain as she withdrew the needle, now red and slippery with his blood. Then a dark-haired young man led him and Portia to a room where a meal was laid out. Eragon wasn't at all hungry, but forced himself to eat the food, not tasting it but knowing that he would be grateful for the energy in the arena. After perhaps half an hour, the windows blacked out, and Eragon fought down a rush of panic. He was a _Shadeslayer_, barzûl! A fighter! A Rider! He'd slain some of the most dangerous inhabitants of Alagaësia: the Ra'zak, the Shade Durza, Galbatorix himself. The other tributes had no chance at all.

So why was he worried?

He didn't know.

But he was.

When the huge machine had touched down, Portia took Eragon back to the ladder and they climbed down into an underground warren of tunnels and rooms, a bleak echoey place, cool and dry, with luminous panels set in the perfectly chiselled rock that hurt Eragon's eyes to look directly at. Once they were in his chamber, the chamber from which he would rise into the arena, he showered quickly, brushed his teeth, and then Portia handed him a packet containing the clothes he would wear in the arena. "I'll help you dress," she said, then raised a hand to cut off Eragon's protests. "You won't know how to put them on," she added impatiently. "They're designed for a certain environment. There's an order you have to put them on in."

So Eragon let her dress him, albeit reluctantly. First were a pair of heat-trapping longjohns and a similar vest. Then an all-in-one fleece suit, and a pair of thick socks that Eragon's feet felt already uncomfortably warm in only minutes after putting them on. Over that went a bulky sweatshirt and a heavy pair of mottled grey-white trousers. Finally, another pair of socks, thinner than the first ones but just as warm, and a sturdy coat of the same colour as the trousers with a zip at the front and whose hood was lined and edged with dense, soft, light brown fur. Over that went a wide, tight belt.

For Eragon's hands, there were a pair of thin insulating gloves beneath a thicker pair that reached to the middle of his forearms, and for his feet there were two bulky boots, dark grey in colour, with short blunt spikes on the bottom and that laced up tightly. Then, at last, Portia pulled a lightweight muffler around the lower half of his face and strapped a pair of heavy tinted goggles onto his forehead, not lowering them immediately.

"The goggles are to prevent snow blindness," she explained, making some last adjustments to his outfit. "You can expect snow. Lots of snow. Never take off the goggles when you're in a wide open area. Only do so when you are surrounded by other objects, like trees or rocks for example. But I'm not saying that there will be any of those in the arena." She stood up and faced him. Eragon felt rather stupid, standing with his arms dangling by his sides, bundled up like a snowman.

"Good luck," she said. "Lower the goggles when you get into the tube that will lift you into the arena. And remember, wait for the gong to sound before you step off your plate. Otherwise you'll be blown to bits and we wouldn't want that, would we?" Eragon did a slight double-take. He hadn't known about that, and felt a bit sick, imagining what would have happened if Portia hadn't uttered that sentence.

About a half-hour passed before the time came for Eragon to enter the arena. He literally was boiling in his outfit and didn't so much care about the other tributes and the danger that awaited him than the snow that Portia had promised. He stood up from where he had been sitting on a stool and lowered his goggles, creating a murky haze in front of him, and raised his hood.

Silently he went and stood on the disk of metal that would rise up a tube into the arena. Portia stood a few feet away from him. She met his eyes and nodded to him. Then the plate was rising, up, up, up, for about fifteen seconds, until Eragon stood in the arena.

"Ladies and gentlemen," said a booming voice that echoed all around him, "let the Seventy-fourth Hunger Games begin!"

Quickly Eragon scanned the area. The twenty-four tributes were arranged in a circle around the Cornucopia, the twisting golden horn in the center of the arena. In its mouth Eragon glimpsed the necessities for survival in this harsh environment: backpacks, blankets, sleeping bags… And weapons. A pile of them, gleaming silver in the weak sunlight. He spotted three swords, a bow and quiver, two knives and a crossbow with its quiver of bolts.

Switching his attention away from them, Eragon examined the arena itself. It was clearly arctic-themed, with snow and ice lying in drifts about the place. There was no grass to be seen. Around the Cornucopia was a circular plain, then to the north – the direction Eragon was facing – was a range of rugged, icy mountains, lacerating the pale sky. East was a sweeping expanse of white, touching the horizon, a bleak, desolate, uninviting place. West, he saw, was a forest, which comforted him somewhat, for whatever reason he did not know. It contained mainly evergreen trees, such as fir or pine or spruce, with a few bushes and dense thickets of brambles and scrubs. And finally south, he noted when he turned around, was a shifting, dangerous-looking expanse of ice floes on a stormy, jagged sea or lake. If it was a lake, though, it was far too large for Eragon to be able to see the far side. It looked utterly treacherous and only a foolhardy or desperate person would venture there, for Eragon knew that once you had fallen into that water you would have no chance of getting back onto dry land. Even if you did, you would freeze to death in a matter of minutes. In this arena, contact with water was fatal.

He turned back around to face the Cornucopia and quickly tried to decide upon a strategy. The previous night, Haymitch had told him and Katniss that they would have no chance of surviving the bloodbath at the Cornucopia. But Haymitch didn't know Eragon's abilities. He could be at the horn before any of the other tributes had even left their plates. And he needed those weapons; he needed them badly. Even if he _did_ end up in a skirmish, which was unlikely, it was more the other tributes who would need to be careful of him. In addition to his superhuman abilities, he was a master of the blade and the bow, which made him completely ruthless and deadly in battle.

It was decided. He would run towards the Cornucopia, not away from it.

He spotted Katniss a few plates to his left and waved to her. In return, she gave him a tense nod. He hoped that she would be OK. But he had to look after himself now.

He took a deep breath.

The gong rang out.

He ran.

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**Well, that's the end of this chapter! I'm sincerely sorry to leave the story on such a cliffhanger, but, well, school is school. Never mind. Hopefully the next chapter will be here soon.**

**As usual, please please please R&R!**

**(That stands for read and review, remember?)**


	8. Chapter 7

**Hi! I am VERY sorry for not updating sooner, but as well as school starting I got an enormous bout of writer's block which, um, temporarily incapacitated me… (I bet you can all see through my rubbish excuses). Anyway this chapter isn't very long but the next one will have more action in it. Thanks to my new followers and favoriters for, well, following and favoriting this fic… So here it is! (Oh yes, and don't forget to review! I'd like to reach a total of ten before February, which only requires one more. C'mon! Give me that little extra push! What only takes YOU a few seconds gives ME a whole day, if not week, of joy! So, please?)**

**DISCLAIMER: I own nothing. It's a lot simpler to say that, I've found out.**

**Enjoy!**

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Fight or Flight

Eragon sprinted through the snow, lifting his feet high so as to maximize his speed. He was aware of the other tributes lurching to life and sped up, arms pumping, legs pounding, and skidded to a stop in the mouth of the Cornucopia. He looked around frantically for the pile of weapons, saw it, dived towards it, his fingers closing instinctively around the wire-wrapped hilt of the sword that most matched Brisingr in size and shape. He stuffed the sheath into his belt and drew the blade, getting ready to fight for his life.

He _felt_, rather than heard, the heavy fist swinging towards his head from behind. In a single fluid movement, he ducked, swirled around, and planted his boot in the chest of his attacker, a large tribute who Eragon didn't recognize because of the hood, muffler, and goggles concealing their features. He felt several ribs crack like wet wood beneath his boot and the tribute flew for five meters before landing on their back in the snow. But now Eragon was distracted, and felt a sharp pain rake down his right shoulderblade. Roaring, he span round to see the female tribute from District One – he knew it was her because of the long white-blonde hair hanging out of her hood – clutching a knife already slick with his blood. He slashed at her with his sword, tearing open the front of her coat and ripping through her flesh, and she cried out, clutching at the wound. He didn't finish her off, instead whirled round yet again to confront Blaze – only he was that huge – who was barrelling towards him, arms outstretched. He leapt out of the way and attempted to stab him with the sword, but once more he was under attack, this time from a girl; he saw dark brown hair swirling round her face and recognized her as the one from Two.

It was chaos. Blood stained the white snow red and everywhere were grappling tributes, some armed, most unarmed, all fighting for survival. Eragon realized all of a sudden that skill had only a small part to play in this battle. It was luck, really, that decided who lived and who died. _W__yrda._

He felt that would be dangerous to stay any longer at the Cornucopia; after all, he had what he wanted – a sword – and he'd already received an injury, so he bent down, snagged a sizeable rucksack off the ground and slung it over his uninjured shoulder. Then he glanced around to see if he was in any immediate danger, decided that he wasn't, and ran off, his feet leaving a trail of footprints behind him, towards the forest.

Eragon soon reached the cover of the trees but didn't stop. He pushed through the bushes and foliage, sometimes using his sword to hack through the vegetation. After about a half-hour of progress, he found a small clearing and halted. He deserved some rest, he thought, and there were things he needed to do, such as examine his wound and the contents of the backpack he'd picked up. So he dropped it onto the ground and zipped it open. At the top was a rolled up blanket made of wool, Eragon noted appreciatively as he held it up. Perhaps some artificial Capitol-made fabric would have been warmer, but wool reminded him of Alagaësia. He laid it to the side and continued his exploration.

Next was a packet of biscuits, about fifteen of them, he saw when he rattled the box. Then a small waterbottle which he filled with snow and wrapped in the blanket, and a tinderbox containing flint, steel, and of course tinder. That was probably the most important item he found in the backpack.

Finally, there was a coil of rope, which Eragon didn't really know how it was going to be useful to him. He stashed everything back in the pack which he zipped up, then decided to check his injury. He twisted round to look at his shoulder. He couldn't see much, but what he did see didn't look very bad. It was barely a scratch.

Eragon looked up at the midday sky and pondered his options. He could stay in this clearing and make camp, but didn't much relish the thought of waiting in the cold for a fight to come his way. He wasn't hungry, so he didn't see the point of hunting. He could always go and track the other tributes, but he didn't particularly want to kill them. He definitely didn't want to kill Katniss… Katniss. Was she even still alive? Eragon hadn't seen her fall at the Cornucopia, so most likely she was. That caused mixed feelings in him. It wasn't that he _wanted_ her to die, but he knew that only one victor could come out of the arena. It would be better if she was killed by another tribute, really, because it would save him for having to fight her later on. That was a situation he refused to consider.

He came to the conclusion that he should move. If he was going to set up camp, he could find a better place to do so than here. And walking would warm him up.

Eragon shouldered the rucksack, pulled up his hood, and set off through the trees. They were widely spaced compared to earlier, and he barely had to use his sword. Which he wasn't at all displeased with; it was almost of the same quality as a finely crafted Alagaësian one. Of course it didn't compare to Brisingr, but that was normal, and he felt thet he was lucky to have got a weapon of such high calibre. It hung, long and sharp and silvery-grey, at his waist, and on a whim he named it _Blödhslytha_. Bloodsleep. It had to be called something, and Bloodsleep seemed a fitting name for a sword.

The day slowly began to wane, with the watery sun scraping its way across the misty sky. According to his estimations, Eragon was travelling to the north-east, towards the edge of the arena. He was still surrounded by forest that sometimes thickened or thinned or became studded with rocks, but was always around him. Occasionally he glimpsed a hare or a squirrel, or the bright auburn flash of a fox's fur, but of the other tributes there was neither sight nor sound. He hoped it would stay that way.

After four, maybe five hours after his arrival into the arena, the first painful tugs of hunger began dragging at his stomach. Eragon looked around for some source of food – as if a deer would walk up to him and bare its throat to be slit! – and realized that he was a fool. He should have taken the bow, or even the crossbow, at the Cornucopia, for a long-distance weapon was necessary to properly hunt, whereas he did not need a sword to kill a human. His hands sufficed. And now here he was, standing in the snow, wondering what he was going to eat. Well, he had his biscuits, at least, and there were always roots, and berries and mushrooms… The problem was, he didn't know which were poisonous and which were not. This wasn't his world, after all.

Eragon sighed and pressed on.

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He found an ideal place to set up camp a short while after the first stars appeared in the darkling sky. A small clearing set against a rocky outcrop about thirty feet high, with a clear patch of ground in front of a small cave. It was barely a scoop in the stone, but it was enough. Eragon ducked his head and entered, dropping his rucksack onto the ground and sitting down himself. He dearly wanted a fire – his clothes kept him warm enough to not risk dying of cold in the night, but they did not provide the primeval comfort that flames did – but the risk of being spotted, even in the cave, even through the trees, was too great.

He broke a biscuit out of the box to nibble on (it was dry and hard and didn't make any difference to his screaming appetite whatsoever) and was just sipping the ice-cold water of his bottle to wash it down when the anthem boomed outside. Surprised, Eragon jolted, splashing water down his front and choking on his mouthful. He ended up hacking into his fist in a rather undignified manner while the anthem continued. When he'd recovered, he crawled out of the cave and stared up at the sky in surprise. The symbol of the Capitol was suspended there, glowing in an unearthly way, bright against the white stars. Then another picture appeared; the face of the girl from District One. Eragon recoiled in shock at this monstrous apparition huge in the sky. Then it was replaced by another; the boy from Three, followed by the one from Six and his female counterpart. Then the boy from Seven. By now Eragon had realized that these were the tributes that had been killed and was surprised when little Fay's picture didn't appear.

Nine tributes were dead in all: the girl from One, the boy from Three, the girl from Five, the two tributes from Six, the girl from District Nine, the boy from Ten and finally the two tributes from District Eleven. Then the music ended with a flourish, the symbol of the Capitol appeared again for a few seconds before vanishing, leaving the night silent and dark. The moon and stars appeared very dull now, compared to the shining images that had been displayed against them.

Eragon re-entered his cave and sat down, wrapping himself in his blanket. All he could think about was Katniss.

She wasn't dead.

He was surprised at the overwhelming relief he felt, crashing down on him like a wave onto the shore. She wasn't dead, and he knew that he might end up fighting her, but she wasn't dead, and that was all that mattered.

"She's not dead," he murmured to himself. "She's not dead and I'll _not _be the one that kills her."

He knew that now as a fact, as sure as he knew that the sky was hollow and the earth was round, as sure as he knew that the seasons turned and as sure as he knew that however long and however cold the night, the sun would always rise.

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_He stood in a wood. Around him were tall slender trees, lit by a strange but not frightening bluey-violet light. Beside him was Saphira._

_ He wasn't surprised to see her. He knew that she was there, he knew that she knew that he was there and that was enough for him. They were walking, silently and slowly, through the forest. His feet and her claws made no sound upon the thick, soft carpet of moss. The trees seemed to bend aside to let them pass._

It will be alright in the end,_ said Saphira. Her voice was neither in his mind nor spoken out loud. He knew it and that was all._

Will it? _Eragon asked. _Will it really?

_Here she touched him on the brow with the tip of her diamond-hard nose. _Little one,_ she replied almost chidingly. _It will be alright. It always is. However long and however cold the night…

The sun will always rise, _he_ _finished. _I believe you, Saphira. I do. At least, I want to believe you…

You will be fine, _she said, rustling her wings against his arms. _You will find peace. You will see the sun rise at the end of the night.

_ A feeling of intense gratitude rose like an eagle in his heart. He threw his arms around her and felt the heat from her body pulse into his, sustaining him, filling him with hope and banishing the last scraps of his fear and sadness. _Thank you, _he whispered. In reply she hummed against his neck._

_ Then they were seperated, wrenched away from one another. The trees started to fade, blurring into a grey haze. Seized by a sudden desperation, he reached towards her but already could not see her anymore. _

Saphira! _he cried. _I love you, Saphira!

_Her outline was faint and indistinct but her voice, when he heard it, was as strong and clear as the tolling of a bell. _

I love you too, little one.

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When he awoke there were tears on his cheeks.

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**And that's chapter seven finished. Sorry if that was short. I just wanted to present the arena and the situation a bit. Anyway don't count on me to update the next chapter quickly, sorry again, but school takes priority. So… See you in a week? Two weeks? Three weeks? Maybe not that long, but as I said before don't get your hopes up. By the way, may you find peace (what Saphira said to Eragon) is "Sé mor'ranr ono finna" in the Ancient Language. Just so you know. **

**Thank you all for reading this far and don't forget to REVIEW!**


	9. Chapter 8

**New chapter! I got several reviews, I'm pleased to say, so my wish for having ten before February is fulfilled! **

**To Madhatter: Thanks a lot for your review and I'm pleased you like the arena, which I wasn't too sure of at first, so at least you're satisfied. I accidentally deleted your review when I got it (that's me, the queen of tech) so I allowed myself to repost it by signing in as a guest. I don't know why, I just wanted you to know.**

**So, enjoy, remember to REVIEW, and Disclaimer: I own nothing!**

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Hunting

Eragon was stiff with cold the next morning, but a few shakes of his arms and several minutes stamping his feet dispelled the frost in his limbs. He was thinking about his dream. About Saphira.

_I love you too, little one._

It was almost too painful to keep in his mind, but he wanted to know whether it had been real or not. Whether his consciousness had really met his dragon. He didn't think so, but… perhaps. After all, he'd had visions of the sort before. But they had been predicting the future, not the past, or whatever time his dream had been set in.

_You will find peace._

Despite the unrelenting agony of thinking about Saphira, a light of comfort shone through the pain like sunlight through the clouds. It _had _been her; he just knew it. No vision, no apparition could mimic her. Not that voice. Not that way of speaking. She had told him that it would be alright in the end, and he believed her. He did. She always spoke the truth.

Eragon swallowed and dragged the back of his hand across his eyes, then folded up his blanket and stuffed it in his rucksack. He couldn't think about Saphira anymore, not without breaking down completely. He'd never been seperated from her for this long before.

Breakfast resolved itself as two biscuits and a gulp of water. He needed meat today. If he didn't eat properly, his strenght would fade as surely as a candle snuffed out by the wind, never mind his extra strenght or speed or endurance. He'd be easy prey for the other tributes. So today, he was going to hunt.

The sky was bright and clear outside, a perfect unbroken blue that stretched over him for hundreds of leagues. With the white ground and the glittering frosty trees, it was a truly beautiful day, but filled with fear. Out here were fourteen tributes – well, thirteen, really – that would kill him without hesitation given the chance. Eragon kept a hand on Blödhslytha's hilt but trusted his superhuman senses to keep him relatively safe from danger.

There was one big question that Eragon had refrained from asking himself until now; _how _exactly was he going to bring down a deer or a hare or anything, really? Well, he reasoned, he'd managed without his elven skills when he'd been a simple farm boy in the Spine; but then again, in the Spine, he'd had a bow. Arrows. The basic necessities. What did he have now?

A sword, excellent reflexes and a growling stomach.

Great.

Eragon sighed and pulled up his muffler and hood. He was just going to have to do what he could.

As it turned out, he slipped easily back into his old hunter's habits: walking silently through the snow, watching for any signs of recent animal activity – droppings, prints, scratchmarks on trees, even an old carcass or a fresh kill. He didn't find much at first, but was reassured that his skills hadn't deserted him.

As he walked, he didn't just watch for animals – he looked for other tributes, too. He knew that they would be less skilled at hiding their passing than animals. A burned-out fire would be a good clue. Or the trampled snow and broken twigs of a deserted campsite. He didn't want to kill the other tributes – yesterday at the Cornucopia he'd just been defending himself – but any information about their activity and location he welcomed with open arms. These were the Hunger Games, after all, and just because he didn't mean any harm to _them _didn't mean that they didn't want to harm _him. _He would have to be naive to believe that.

About two hours passed before Eragon first saw a hopeful sign. He'd been wandering around in the woods, not going in any particular direction but being careful not to loop back on himself, which was perhaps the reason why he hadn't yet entered the mountains or re-entered the plain. It was a steaming pile of deer dung, recognizable because of the pellets that composed it. Excited, Eragon stopped stock-still and glanced around at the ground, his hunter's eyes quickly scanning for the signs he knew would be there. The droppings were at the edge of a resonably large clearing, the ground of which was muddied and trodden down. It was definitely the work of a herd of deer, Eragon noted as he caught sight of several cloven-hoofed prints. The excrement was still fresh so the herd had to be nearby…

He left the clearing in the most likely direction, north, where the prints led. A normal person wouldn't have been able to spot the tracks, but he was used to this and easily followed the prints. He moved swiftly but quietly, almost noiselessly in fact, and realized just how useful his elven abilities were to him on a hunt. How would he bring down his prey? Definitely with Blödslytha, he decided. He might be strong, strong enough to easily break a deer's neck, but there was the matter of first _getting _his hands around the animal's neck. And grabbing hold of a panicking wild animal wasn't going to be easy. Whereas a sword slid in, out, and it was over.

The tracks veered east and Eragon continued through the woods, which were thinning now. That didn't mean he was nearing an open area, though.

How far had the deer gone? They had to be near here. The dung had been fresh. He was going to find them in the next few minutes, he knew it. His hunter's senses, honed from years of tracking in the Spine, were tingling.

Eragon crept into a thicket and halted, instinctively ducking his head to avoid being seen. Here they were, about twenty of them, maybe twenty-five, clustered in a glade, nibbling at the grass they had uncovered beneath the snow. Their breath was steaming in the cold air.

"Hello, my little beauties," Eragon whispered to himself. "You're going to be very useful to me." But in truth, he didn't have a clue how to proceed. If he'd had a bow, it would be now that he'd be nocking an arrow and drawing back the string. But his only weapon was Blödslytha. He couldn't exactly charge in there, slashing with his sword, and expect to come out uninjured or with a kill. They would panic, bolt, and he'd probably get a sharp hoof or an antler in the stomach for his trouble. How did he isolate only one of them…?

Eragon racked his brains. It was infuriating to have come all this way to be stuck here, within several feet of his prey, without being able to do anything.

He stayed in the thicket for several minutes, considering and discarding various plans of attack, and was just about to charge in regardless of the danger when the problem was solved for him.

A silvery blur shot through the air and struck the largest deer in the head in an explosion of blood and shards of bone. The animal screamed and was dead before it hit the ground.

The assault had come from the trees on the other side of the glade, opposite Eragon, so it was natural that the herd fled towards him. They bolted, crying out frantically, a torrent of tawny fur and wide eyes and gleaming antlers. Eragon reacted in a split second. He tensed his legs and leapt straight up in the air, and wrapped his gloved hands around the nearest branch: a thick bough that hung a little more than three meters above the ground. He deftly hoisted himself up and crouched on his perch, the metal studs on the soles of his boots making it hard to balance on the icy wood. He hunched his shoulders and tried to make himself as small as possible as the deer ran past below. Fortunately, the needles were thick here and he was surrounded by the tufty snow-laden branches of other trees, so he was all but invisible. He shifted the straps of his rucksack, adjusted Blödhslytha so that it lay flat against his leg, and held his breath as he waited for whoever had killed the deer to reveal themselves.

A figure stepped out of the woods into the clearing. Their face was hidden by hood and muffler, but their goggles were raised, and their eyes glittered the colour of ink. Only one tribute had eyes as black as that.

_Sharker._

A crossbow dangled casually from his left hand, and the quiver of bolts was slung across his back. Eragon saw that he'd cut off the fingers of his outer gloves to be able to better hold and fire his weapon.

Sharker glanced around, saw nobody, and tossed the crossbow onto his shoulder; it had a strap for precisely that purpose. Then he lowered his muffler and gave a low whistle. Several seconds later, two other tributes emerged from the trees and came to stand beside him.

One of them was definitely Blaze: he stood three heads higher than Sharker and was at least twice as wide. There was a sword hanging from his belt and an enormous bulky backpack on his back; he seemed to be serving as a kind of pack animal for the group. The other one, who was smaller than her two companions, he recognized as Gaia, of District Seven, whose face was uncovered. A knife was at her waist. Eragon frowned; Katniss had said that only tributes from Districts One, Two, and Four were Careers. He got a better grip on his branch and watched the scene play out beneath him.

"Is the cloak-and-dagger secret whistle really necessary?" grumbled Blaze, wrenching down his muffle and spitting in the snow. "Seems a whole lot of bullshit to me."

Sharker didn't reply as he walked over to the deer carcass and ripped the crossbow bolt out of its head with an unpleasant crunching sound. He wiped it on his coat, leaving a thin red smear down the white fabric, and pushed it back into his quiver.

"That'll feed us for at least half a week, Sharker," remarked Gaia. "Nice catch."

"Yeah, well, who knows how much _he _eats?" Sharker replied sarcastically, nodding towards Blaze. Immediately, the larger tribute grabbed him by the front of his coat and hauled him towards him.

"Say that to my face if you're going to say it at all," he spat, looking on the verge of tearing out Sharker's throat, who just stared up at him impassively. Gaia placed herself between them and shoved them apart with a hand on each of their chests.

"Cool it, will you?" she said after Blaze had released Sharker. "We're supposed to be a team."

"There's no such thing as a team in the Hunger Games," said Sharker dismissively. He dusted himself down theatrically and held out his hand to Gaia. She passed him her knife, hilt first, and he knelt down and set about butchering the deer.

Eragon had already learned some very interesting things about these tributes: Sharker was a little too cocky for his own good, Blaze seemed to be some kind of psychopath – which, admittedly, he'd already guessed – and Gaia was probably the most sensible of the three. And there seemed to be some discord between them.

It was all valuable information, but he had one problem.

How was he going to get away without being seen or heard?

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**Finished! Another cliffie! Sorry the chapter couldn't be longer, but my exams are tomorrow and I've had to revise. Wish me luck, hmm?**

**So hopefully the next one will be longer! **

**Read and review, as usual!**

**See y'all soon!**


	10. Chapter 9

**Hello! Here's the new update. As you must have guessed. I think it's a respectable length, being 2100 words long, and that's not counting the author's notes footnotes things. The parts in bold, basically. Anyway, thanks to TimC for their review, short but encouraging, it made me very happy so thanks again, I mean of course the longer the better but as you know ANY review is very, very welcome. So, there.**

**I don't really have anything else to say… apart from that I think this well be the rough length of my chapters from now on. I do NOT know where those 3000 word chapters at the beginning came from, but I've not seen them since. So… enjoy!**

**Oh and of course, I own NOTHING, do I really have to keep saying it? Hmm, well, I don't want to be sued, so I guess I do. How boring.**

**And of course don't forget to R&R! (That means Read and Review, remember?)**

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Gaia, Blaze and Sharker

_How am I going to escape?_

Eragon crouched on his branch and turned the six words over and over in his head. He knew that he wasn't really in any danger as long as he stayed in this tree, as he was nearly entirely hidden by clumps of needles and the frost engrained in the bark allowed him to easily blend in with his mottled white clothes. But he also knew that he couldn't stay here forever. He'd been hiding up here for a little longer than an hour and a cramp was tugging painfully at his left calf muscle, not counting the thirst and hunger that had him in their grasp. The tributes in the glade below had cut up the deer and built a fire, and were now cooking bits of meat on long sticks they'd collected . For lunch, Eragon guessed. The morning had flown by faster than he would have thought possible. The greasy smell of roasting venison wafted appetizingly through the air, and Eragon was finding it hard to keep from jumping down and massacring the lot of them just for a bite of that wonderful-smelling food.

But of course, he couldn't. He just couldn't. He couldn't slaughter other tributes. It was a promise he was determined to keep. If he killed these three, what would the limit be? Were would he stop? Why should Blaze die any more than Katniss? He'd already killed people before, soldiers mainly, but other people too, and regretted it. However, Eragon knew that he'd done what he'd had to do back then. He was sure that there had been no alternatives. Whereas _here,_ in this icy arena, in this strange land, there were alternatives. There were other choices. And the one Eragon had picked and was going to stick to was to not play the Capitol's game of bloodshed and fear. He'd decided that the night when he'd dreamed – or _seen_ – Saphira. Before that he'd been in a kind of daze, a fog, almost like he was in shock. Well, if that was true, then the dream, the vision of Saphira had been the bucket of cold water thrown in his face that had woken him up. He was going to rebel, in this small way. He wasn't going to give the Capitol what they wanted.

He realized then that he'd rather die.

Down in the clearing, the Careers were talking, their mood somewhat calmed down now that they had food in their stomachs.

"So, we head north, then?" asked Gaia, biting into her portion of venison. "At least, more north than we are now?"

"Yeah, that's right," replied Sharker. "That girl, what was her name – Zulaka? Zuleika? – headed up there. I saw her footprints. She's dangerous, I'm sure of it. The sooner she's dead –" here he swiped his hand through the air "– the better."

"How do you even know it was her?" grunted Blaze. "Could've been anyone."

"Did none of you notice?" sneered Sharker. "God, you're more stupid than I thought. She walks with a limp. I saw that during training. So, her footprints are lopsided. It's really basic tracking. And besides, even if we don't find her, I'm sure we'll find some other tasty little tribute on the way." He flashed a grin so carnivorous that for a second he ressembled his namesake.

"How do you know how to track when you're from a _fishing _district?" asked Gaia sceptically.

"In case you didn't notice, there was this place that we stayed in before the Games began," Sharker retorted, skewering another slice of meat with a thrust of his arm. "Called the Training Center. We learned things there. Like, for example, how to track." He rolled his eyes and bit into the venison.

"I know that," Gaia shot back. "Don't be an ass. I was curious, that's all."

It looked like their conversation was turning into yet another fight. Eragon shifted slightly in an attempt to dispell the cramp in his leg, and heard a _crack._ A huge slap of bark had detached from the branch that he was crouched on, and even as he watched, fell down towards the ground as if in slow motion. It landed with a muffled thump in the snow, a quiet sound, but one that Sharker's sharp ears picked up nonetheless.

"Barzûl," Eragon hissed, as he closed his eyes and mentally cursed the metal studs on his boots with the blackest oaths he could find. Hopefully Sharker would ignore the noise, and even more the suspiciousness of a piece of bark falling from a tree that was supposed to be deserted.

He didn't have any such luck. As soon as the wood landed on the ground, the tribute from District Four whirled round, his crossbow flying into his hands. He loaded it more swiftly than Eragon would have thought possible, sprang to his feet, lifted it to his shoulder and took aim at the exact branch where Eragon was hidden.

"Okay," he called into the frosty air, his breath pluming in front of him. "Come on down. I know someone's up there and unless you're standing in front of me in the next three seconds you're going to have a bolt sticking out of some very painful part of you, like your head, or your chest, or perhaps your stomach if I'm feeling magnanimous. Just a warning: I never miss my targets."

"You haven't _had _a target until now," said Blaze, getting up too, along with Gaia. He squinted dubiously at the tree. "You sure there's someone up there?"

"One hundred per cent," replied Sharker. "I'm starting counting now!" he shouted up to Eragon. "One!"

"You're making a mighty fool of yourself," snorted Blaze, but he kept his eyes on Eragon's tree despite his scorn.

"Two!" yelled Sharker.

"Keep it down, would you?" snapped Gaia, going back to the smouldering fire and picking up her stick, still with a slice of venison on the end.

"Thr-"

"All right!" Eragon shouted, dropping off the branch and sinking into the snow below. "All right. I'm down. Don't shoot." He held his hands up in a clear display of surrender.

"Hah!" laughed Sharker at Blaze's expression, who had his mouth hanging open and his eyes bulging out of his head. "Didn't think I was right, did you?" He turned his attention back to Eragon and his face grew serious once again, his black eyes gleaming with that almost palpable menace Eragon had seen in him before. "So," he said almost conversationally. "Give me one good reason why I shouldn't send a bolt through your brain."

"I don't know," Eragon replied, realizing that everything depended on the side of him he'd shown during the interviews. The cocky, arrogant side. "You're the one holding the crossbow."

"Hah!" Sharker said again, but this time his harsh face held no trace of humour. " 'You're the one holding the crossbow,' he says. Quite right. Why am I even giving you the chance to defend yourself?"

Eragon shrugged disinterestedly, as if he didn't know and didn't care.

"Come on Sharker," said Gaia, who'd returned to stand next to Blaze. "What are you waiting for? Kill him and let's be done with it. Or unless you like being a big macho man? Flashing your crossbow around, acting all menacing?" She laughed.

"All right, all right, you can stop there," growled Sharker. "All I'm doing is giving him a chance to explain what he was doing up in that tree watching us eat for over an hour, but if he doesn't want to then I'm not going to complain." He shifted the crossbow on his shoulder and stared daggers at Eragon, who realized that he was going to have to say something.

"Well," he said, "I was hunting the herd of deer like you, but when you shot that bolt I climbed into the tree, and since you didn't go away I had no choice than to stay up there. It's simple." He shrugged again.

"Why didn't you attack us?" asked Gaia.

"It would have been three against one," Eragon replied. "You can work it out for yourselves, I think."

"Okay, then," said Sharker. "Thanks for the info. Now, goodb-"

"Wait!" exclaimed Eragon. "Don't shoot me. I can be useful to you. I got an eleven in training, remember? I can help you. It would be a waste to kill me."

"Hmm," Blaze grunted. "Don't listen to him, Sharker. Shoot him. I don't understand why you haven't already done it."

Sharker shrugged, raised his eyebrows and said, "Yeah, sorry Eragon, but I'm afraid I can't leave you alive. I would if I could." On those words, he fired his crossbow.

Eragon had been expecting this and ducked swiftly, so the only thing the bolt tore through was the outer layer of clothing over his left shoulder. He lunged forwards, flicking Blödhslytha up into his hand as he did so in a flash of sunlight on steel, and smashed the pommel of the sword into Sharker's temple who hadn't been expecting Eragon to move so inhumanly fast. He crumpled inert to the ground.

Eragon whirled around and saw Blaze charging towards him, hands outstretched, like a crazed bull. This confirmed what Eragon had already suspected; Blaze had a sword but preferred to use his own body as a weapon. He rolled easily beneath Blaze's swinging fists – he was strong, he did grant him that, but with strenght came slowness – rose back up to his feet and as he did so, slammed the heel of his hand into the soft patch beneath his jaw, not as hard as he could have, but hard enough to incapacitate him. Blaze went down like a felled tree.

A whistle of wind behind him alerted Eragon to Gaia's presence. He jumped into the air, turned a backflip over her head, landed lightly as a cat behind her and before she could turn around, he touched the tip of Blödhslytha to the spot between her shoulderblades, hard enough for her to feel it but not enough to hurt her.

"Right," he said, not even slightly out of breath, " I suggest you do what I tell you. Unless, of course, you don't mind a little pain."

Gaia kept still as a statue, her body taut as a drawn bow.

"First," he continued, "you can drop the knife."

The weapon splashed into the snow.

"Good," Eragon said. "I see that you're not totally devoid of common sense." He bent, without taking Blödhslytha away from Gaia's back, and picked up the knife which he slipped into his belt. Then he said, "Go over to Blaze and unbuckle his sword. Know that if you try to use it against me, you'll fail." So saying, he prodded her with his own weapon and she stumbled over to where the largest tribute lay senseless on the ground. As she obeyed his order, he went to Sharker, who was groaning and moving slightly but still far from being ready to fight again – if "fight" meant attacking someone and being knocked unconscious before managing to land a blow – and removed from him his quiver and his crossbow, both of which he slung across his back, after tossing his rucksack onto the ground. He didn't think he'd have to make a quick getaway anytime soon. Then he wrenched the bolt that had been fired at him free from the tree in which it was stuck and pushed it into the quiver.

Eragon was becoming quite well-armed.

Gaia handed him Blaze's sword in its scabbard, and he slipped it into his belt alongside Blödhslytha. Of course, Eragon didn't intend to keep all these weapons. He would return them to their respective owners in time, but first he wanted to be sure that they meant no further harm to him. He didn't allow himself to kill them, nor did he want to have to engage in another conflict. And he did want to be part of their group; he needed human contact. Well, maybe "needed" wasn't a good word, but he did _want _human contact, and that was for sure.

Eragon didn't really have a plan. All he knew was that he couldn't kill any other tribute, that he was going to have to travel with the Careers a while – and do his best to avoid having to kill anybody while with them, and ideally stop _them _from killing anybody, but he knew that was a bit optimistic of him and very unlikely to actually happen – and that was it. He was really making it up as he went along.

Gaia was still standing in front of him. Eragon jolted out of his reverie and looked around the clearing. Blaze was groggily sitting up, rubbing his jaw and gazing around blearily, and Sharker was still lying semi-conscious in the snow. An ugly purple lump was beginning to form where Eragon had whacked him with Blödhslytha.

"Right," said Eragon. "I think we're all going to have to have a little talk. But first," he said as he saw the smoldering fire and the butchered carcass of the deer lying beside it, and became aware of the painful growling in his empty stomach, "I'm going to have to eat some of that venison."

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**And that's the end! Next chapter soon, I prom- , actually no I think I'd better not promise anything like that. Well, at least I didn't leave you on a cliffhanger like last time. **

**Anyway, everything I wanted to say I said in the autor's note footnote topnote thing in bold at the beginning of this chapter, so I have nothing left to tell you… apart from, you guessed it, REVIEW!**

**(And it rhymed! How's THAT for style?)**

**Review. Please. Thank you. **

**Goodbye! See you soon! **

**(Hopefully, I'll see you soon, that is…)**


	11. Chapter 10

**Hi! This chapter is NOT very good at all, but I was quite low on inspiration. Sorry. I'll be sure to refill for the next update. Anyway, thanks a LOT to my reviewers, you really make me very very happy. So please keep reviewing. Thanks again.**

**Enjoy! Despite the bad quality!**

**And I own nothing! Nothing at all!**

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With the Careers

"I don't understand why you didn't kill us," said Sharker.

It was midafternoon in the arena. Eragon, Gaia, Blaze and Sharker were hiking northwards through the forest, following a trail of footprints they'd stumbled upon shortly after leaving the clearing. Sharker swore they were Zuleika's. Eragon had to admit that there was a certain lopsidedness to them; while he felt bad for the girl they were tracking and wished he could somehow hid her tracks, he was relieved they weren't Katniss's.

"I told you," he replied, swiping at a particularly thick clump of vegetation with Blödslytha – he'd given the Careers back their weapons. "I didn't _want _to kill you. I _still _don't want to kill you."

"But you're supposed to kill people in the Hunger Games," Sharker protested.

"All right," said Eragon, rounding on him. "Would you rather I _had _killed you? Because I can easily remedy that."

Their conversation ended there.

Back in the clearing, Eragon had explained to the Careers why he'd spared them: his flimsy excuse was that there was safety in numbers. He couldn't exactly tell them that he wouldn't, no, _couldn't _kill them, or they would be upon him like a pack of wolves upon a sheep. Despite knowing that he could defend himself more that adequately. He couldn't kill them, but he wasn't helpless, either. Still, if he could avoid conflict, of course he would.

Despite all the stress and fear that came with it, Eragon relished being once again surrounded by nature. It was all the more pleasant when he thought of the Capitol, its artificial candy streets, its freakish inhabitants… the cold clearness of the arena was invigorating. Sometimes, between the trees, he glimpsed animals, mainly squirrels and the like, but occasionally a fox darting through the snow, and once he even saw a grey wolf watching them with unblinking golden eyes from deep in the woods.

"Hello, little _garm,_" Eragon whispered before making sure that his companions were far enough away to not hear him. "Glad to see I'm not alone."

The wolf's gaze didn't falter. It swished its bushy silver tail through the air, once, and then turned and sank back into the shadows of the trees, quietly, slowly, almost a shadow itself.

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The day passed quickly, as they trecked north, towards the mountains. Eragon estimated that the next morning they would reach the foothills. The tracks they were following led to a churned up little glade, nestled between some large boulders. Eragon noted a blackened patch of ground, strewn with bits of charcoal; a burned-out fire.

"It's not like she's exactly _trying _to cover her path, is it?" said Blaze incredulously as he knelt and inspected the old campfire. "Look, Sharker," he said, spotting something. "A second pair of footprints is leading away from here."

They all saw the tracks joining up with Zuleika's and winding away deeper into the forest.

"So she's got an ally," Gaia shrugged. "Nothing we can't handle."

"Hmm," said Sharker, narrowing his eyes as he gazed at the prints. Then he suddenly grinned. "Unless Eragon spares their lives, like he did with us."

Blaze laughed, and Eragon joined in. But inwardly he was chafing. A joke like that might mean nothing… or it might mean that Sharker knew that he was unwilling – un_able – _to kill another tribute. Which might also mean that Sharker saw him as a weak link. Which might also mean that…

Eragon tutted at himself. He was being ridiculous. Leaping to conclusions like this wasn't going to help him in any way. But he did wonder if he mightn't have been better off if he'd stayed on his own. He couldn't exactly walk off now. Well, if he had to, he wouldn't have any trouble. All he had to do was knock out the Careers like before, and…

He was doing it again. Leaping to conclusions. Making plans like the Careers were going to turn on him in the next five minutes.

Being ridiculous.

"All right," said Sharker, clapping his gloved hands together. "Onwards we go. Come on!"

He led the way, with Gaia just behind him, followed by Blaze.

Eragon sighed, shifted the straps of his pack into a more comfortable position, and started after his companions.

**OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO**

Eragon, Gaia, Blaze and Sharker sat around a fire, cooking pieces of the deer that Blaze had carried draped over one shoulder for seven hours. Eragon had to admire his strenght. He would be a match for a Kull.

"Okay, said Sharker, "I'm tired. Who's gonna stand sentry for the first half of the night?"

"I– " Eragon began, but was interrupted by Gaia, who said, "I will."

"And the second half?"

"I wi– " Eragon tried to say again, but this time Blaze volunteered. Oh well. It wouldn't be bad to catch some sleep.

The anthem suddenly boomed over their heads, as instant and loud as a clap of thunder. Eragon jolted, like he had the first time he'd heard it in the arena, and charred half the slice of venison he'd been roasting. He scraped the blackened mess of the stick as the picture of the boy from District Nine appeared against the stars, followed by the one of the girl from Two. Then the symbol of the Capitol replaced her, the music ended with flourish and once again the night was silent and dark.

"Hmm," said Sharker in disgust. "Not many people died today. Oh well. All the more for us." He flashed that fearsome grin again. Eragon was starting to think that Sharker was perhaps a little unstable.

"All right," said Blaze, rifling through the backpack he had been carrying and pulling out a blanket. He unrolled it and sat against a tree, spreading the blanket over his knees. "I don't know about you lot, but I'm gonna catch some sleep."

"Thanks for taking the only blanket," snapped Sharker. "Very kind of you. I'll just have to do without one, like I did yesterday." He swept a patch of snow away and sat down, laying his crossbow and quiver to one side. The firelight glinted golden off his blonde hair as he laid his head on the ground.

Eragon pulled out his own blanket and, following Sharker's lead, brushed the snow away from where he would lie. He wrapped himself in the blanket and lay down. His hand was wrapped around Blödslytha's hilt.

He didn't sleep that night.

**OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO**

The next morning, they breakfasted on cold venison and started off quickly, their breath forming misty plumes in the frosty air. Eragon had been right; only a half-hour after they set off, they reached the first of the low, sloping hills that heralded the approach of the range of jagged mountains that had been looming on the horizon.

They walked quickly, without talking, their boots crunching through the snow that lay in thick drifts on the ground. The forest was starting to thin out, giving way to an icy scrubland, but the footprints of the tributes they were tracking were still visible – painfully so.

_ Zuleika and her companion must really be naïve, _thought Eragon as he trudged onwards behind the imposing bulk of Blaze's back, gazing down at the crisp prints that pierced the white veil of snow. _Either that or they're way too confident in their abilities._

He hoped that the other tribute wasn't Katniss.

The watery sun dragged itself up into the pale sky – the blue sky of the previous day seemed to be a world away – giving them little light and scant warmth. Eragon stared up at where it hung like the watchful but indifferent eye of some godlike cosmic creature.

_How puny the affairs of the mortals must seem to the gods, _he thought. If he were in Alagaësia, he would talk with Saphira about this; they often held philosophical debates. But he wasn't in Alagaësia anymore. So all he could do was spare one last glance towards the colourless sun and follow his companions.

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There was smoke on the horizon.

It was nothing more than a grey smear against the looming mountains, really, but it was there, and Eragon's stomach coiled into a tense, sick-feeling knot when he saw it. Here it was, then. In less than half an hour, judging by the distance at which the smoke rose, he would meet other tributes, and he would know his true worth.

He would know whether he would be the Eragon who killed another person of his age, or whether he would hold back and be himself. Be the Eragon who refused to be controlled by the bloodthirsty Capitol. Be the stronger Eragon.

He didn't need to even ask himself the question.

He would be the stronger Eragon.

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**And that's the end! I'm really sorry for the quality of this chapter. But the thing is, I sort of know the rough storyline, and the important events that will happen, but not the between bits, if you know what I mean. So this is a between bit, and for that reason it's fairly rubbish. But I promise the next one will be better and longer. **

**Read and review, it would make me so happy!**

**:)**


	12. Chapter 11

**And HI! I'm back! With a new chapter! As you guessed! Anyway, this is a really great chapter, at least that's what I think, with a good deal of action, but it's shorter than expected – about the same length as the last one – because the ending just seemed so good. So, the next chapter will be longer (I know I'm no longer credible when I say this, but please at least try to believe me) with at least 2000 words. Yup. Hopefully.**

**And also, I noticed something really BAD in the last two chapters – Eragon ate MEAT! And there I was, thinking he was a model to all vegetarians the world over (he's definitely NOT vegan, not with the amount of leather he wears) but no, he goes and guzzles some venison when he thinks nobody's looking. What a traitor to his principles. So, I'm going to excuse him (but it won't happen again, Eragon, you've been warned) because in the books it said that he did eat meat sometimes, for example when there are big feasts where there's a lot of it and it looks weird to not break your resolutions. So, he does eat meat SOMETIMES. Just not often. Anyway, if any of you notice any other strange contradictions like that, please tell me, because sometimes I can be really dumb and just forget stuff like that. Thanks! **

**Remember to Review! And also thanks to Ai Huiyuan and Madhatter and the others for their reviews. Really, they make me SO happy!**

**And of course I own nothing!**

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The stronger Eragon

The smoke was still there, a jagged streak of ash-grey against the dirty ice colour of the mountains behind it, that heralded immediate fear and immediate violence.

Twenty minutes had passed since the smoke had first appeared. Twenty minutes of running, not flat-out but a steady dogtrot, towards it. Twenty minutes of Eragon feeling like he was on the verge of being sick.

_Maybe it was the venison, _he mused as he and the Careers jogged through the snowy scrubland. _I'm not used to eating meat, after all. Or, the more likely hypothesis, I don't want to make the choice that is heading towards me as fast as I am running._

The choice of… he couldn't remember the options; they'd just faded into a kind of greyish red haze in the back of his mind, a haze of stress and adrenaline. He brought them back into the foreground, and contemplated each with a grim resolve.

He could just stand at the edge of the fight and not participate in it. But he didn't like that; it felt cowardly. Either he took part in the attack, or he parted ways with the Careers. One or the other. But not a blend of the two.

Eragon sighed and tried to focus on pushing down the bile that was rising in his throat. To be honest, the Careers were unnerving him; they loped forwards, ressembling in Eragon's eyes nothing so much as a pack of feral beasts tracking their prey. Everything, from the savage glint in Blaze's pale eyes to the coiled power of Sharker's stride to the tautness of Gaia's muscles, fed his vision: that of a group of hunting wolves about to leap upon their helpless victims.

He swallowed hard, trying to banish his fears, and followed them, the people he was beginning to consider less and less as his companions, less and less as his friends – though they had never been and would never be that – and more and more as his foes.

_Why _was he following them, though? Why had he not gone off, away from Gaia and Blaze and Sharker? They would have attacked him, of that he was sure. But he had disarmed them in the clearing where they had first met, and he could have easily done it again.

What was stopping him from doing it now?

He knew what.

One way or another, he wanted to see this affair resolved. He wanted a definite end to this hunt. If he was to leave the Careers, he would do so after Zuleika and her companion had perished – or after they had won the battle against their pursuers. One way or another, it would be over.

But Eragon still did not know what he would do when that battle arose.

He would just have to act on the spur of the moment, like he had done so many times before back in Alagaësia.

_I'm not going down that road,_ he thought grimly to himself as he pressed on, kicking powdery snow in front of him. _I can't break down in tears right here. I've got bigger things to worry about at the moment._

And to his surprise, he managed to convince himself of that.

**OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO**

There they were. Two figures were clearly visible around a small campfire, at the base of a fairly vertical slope that Eragon, Blaze, Gaia and Sharker stood at the top of. They would have been visible even to a human who lacked Eragon's elf vision. Zuleika and… if he squinted, Eragon thought the other one was the girl from District Three, but he couldn't be sure. In any case, he was certain she wasn't Katniss.

Sharker stopped and signaled to the others to do so as well. Unlinging his crossbow from his back and loading it, he said, "I can pick them off from here. No reason for us to charge in and put ourselves at risk when we can avoid it."

Blaze looked put out. "So, no fight, then?" he scowled. "I'm sorry, Sharks, but it is not you who decides. I am going down there, and I am kicking their butts, and you are not going to stop me." He drew his sword in an elaborate gesture, and swung it through the air, the sunlight glittering in sharp silver shards of the metal of the blade.

Sharker looked disgusted. "Why would _you _decide and not me? I thought we'd agreed that I was the leader of this group. I –" he patted his chest, "am the brains, and you are the brawn."

"And I am the girl," interjected Gaia, her voice dripping with sarcasm, "so I don't get a say in anything."

"That's right," laughed Blaze, but stopped immediately when she stomped over to him and pressed her knife against his throat.

"That's _very funny," _she hissed. "Make another joke like that and you'll find that I can be pretty hilarious too." She sheathed her weapon and Blaze rubbed his neck, frowning.

"It was you who made the joke in the first place," he muttered. Gaia shot him a warning glare and turned to Sharker.

"Right," she said. "Blaze and I will go down there and take care of them. Sharker, you'll stay up here and cover us if we get in trouble. And Eragon –" she turned to him, and raised an eyebrow.

"I'll come with you," he said quickly, making a snap decision. "I'll help." He'd reached the point where it was more rational to trust his instinct, and not think too much about what he was doing.

"Very well," Gaia replied. She pulled her goggles down over her eyes and Eragon did likewise, followed by Blaze. They were at no risk of becoming snow blind in this tussocky, rock-strewn terrain, but the goggles could provide some protection against whatever crude, makeshift weapons their targets possessed. Blaze also tossed the rucksack he carried onto the ground at Sharker's feet (Eragon had preferred to keep his on his back). They'd finished the deer the day before, so that was one less burden to worry about.

"Hey," said Sharker. "What if I get attacked from behind?"

"Then you won't be able to rely on our help," snapped Gaia. "You can fight them off, like the big boy you are." She beckoned to Eragon and Blaze. "Let's go."

They kept low as they trotted towards the brow of the hill, but when they reached the slope, they broke into a run. The figures at the bottom leapt to their feet – it was the girl from District Three, Eragon had been right – scattering snow over their campfire, and reaching for their weapons. Zuleika clutched a thick, scarred log, the base of which was wrapped in a shred of cloth in an attempt at a handle, and her friend had a sharp piece of rock in her fist. They did not try to run – their enemies were too close, and too fast, for that.

Blaze reached them first, and swung his sword at the nameless girl. She ducked, using her smaller size as an advantage over his bulk, and punched her stone knife towards his stomach. It ripped through the outer layer of his clothes, but did not draw blood.

Meanwhile, Gaia was by Zuleika. The two girls were trading blows, and seemed evenly matched. Gaia was the tallest, but Zuleika was stronger, and easily batted away the knife slashes that sliced into the raw wood of her weapon/shield. Still, Gaia was faster, and many of her blows darted between her opponent's defences, opening nicks here and scratches there. Small wounds, but ones that soon would tell. She was working at Zuleika, wearing her down like a dog does a chained bear, tiring her, waiting for the slip that would cause her downfall.

Eragon looked frantically around as if he were searching for some clue from the heavens about what he should do. But all he saw was Gaia, cutting at Zuleika, and Zuleika, taking the slashes on the log she held, and Blaze, holding his sword high… high over the fallen form of the girl from District Three.

Eragon was moving before he even knew what he was doing, Blödslytha swinging from its scabbard into his fist, flashing like a flame in the pale light of the sun. He dived towards Blaze, drawing upon every ressource the spirit dragon of Ellesméra had granted him with, and brought up his own sword to meet his enemy's.

The blades connected with a resounding _clang _that juddered sickeningly through Eragon's arm. Blaze was incredibly strong, almost superhumanly so for a human, but Eragon was stronger. With a savage cry he pushed Blaze back, sending him stumbling through the snow.

"You won't hurt this girl," he snarled from between clenched teeth, "because it is not you who decides her fate." He charged at Blaze again, swiping Blödslytha through the air, fuelled by a burning fury that coursed fire-like through his limbs. Blaze was too stunned to protect himself, and the blade raked across his chest, leaving a bloody red line.

It was the sight of the blood that stopped Eragon.

It wasn't up to him to decide Blaze's fate, was it? How could he say such a thing and then do it himself? Confused and panicked, but still enraged against Blaze, Eragon stood there, blood dripping from the tip of his sword. Blaze was still too, staring wide-eyed at Eragon, his white coat slowly turning red. Too shocked to move. His weapon limp in his hand.

Then a searing pain ripped through the top of Eragon's left arm.

He'd forgotten about Sharker.

Sharker, up there on the hill, holding his crossbow.

Sharker, who wouldn't miss his target a second time.

**OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO**

**TA-DAA! Cliffhanger! I'll update soon, I promise, but because I said so much in the author's note footnote handnote topnote thing at the beginning of this chapter, I won't say it all again down here. **

**I hope you enjoyed that, and remember, pleeeeaaase REVIEW!**

**Until next time, amigos! **


	13. Chapter 12

**Hello. I'm back. I am quite pleased with the speed of this update, considering that this is a pretty long chapter. There's some action in it, some dialogue, and some blabla that you can skip if you don't want to read it. That blabla will be at the END, because my inspiration-o-meter ran outta fuel. I'll make sure to refill it soon. **

**Thanks to Dragonnetic for his review(s), thanks to TimC for their review, thanks to anyone who is reading this for thinking "Well, I'm not gonna read this story because it sounds like a heap of crummy storyline and plot holes, but I'm going to make something up and review anyway because it will make the author so HAPPY." **

**I own NOTHIIIING! (I really am getting bored of putting that at at the beginning of every chapter.) And remember to tell me if I forget anything or contradict myself or anything like that. **

**Enjoy! (And I suppose you already know I want you to review, so I won't bother saying that.)**

**OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO**

Zuleika

Pain ripped through the top of Eragon's left arm and in that moment of agony, he remembered Sharker, up there on the hilltop, holding his crossbow, and who wouldn't miss his target a second time. He flung himself at the ground as a second bolt cut through the air where his chest had been a moment ago. This situation was, quite frankly, spiralling out of control, and Eragon needed to get out of here before he got badly injured or worse. Yes, he was stronger and faster than his foes, but accidents happened easily in chaotic fights like this one, and they could not be reversed.

He scrambled to his feet as Blaze got over the stupor of being attacked by his ally and swung his sword at Eragon, the blade slicing through his coat. Eragon leapt backwards, brought up his own sword, smashed it against Blaze's so hard that small, razor-sharp splinters flew from both blades – in a strange moment of clarity, Eragon thought with grim humour of Fredric, the Varden's weapon master, and what he would have to say about that – then, while his enemy stumbled backwards, tripped over a protruding rock and fell on his backside in the snow, he performed a backwards somersault and landed three meters away, beside the inert form of the girl whose name he still did not know. He held out a hand to her.

"Get up!" he cried. "Come on!"

But she shook her head, and pointed weakly to an enormous gash near her midriff. Eragon had been so obsessed by the fight and his sudden switching of allies that he'd failed to notice the blood-soaked patch of snow that she was lying in. There was no chance of her escaping.

"I'm sorry," he said quietly. "I'm sorry. What's your name?"

If the girl was baffled by this strange question she didn't show it. "Anya," she murmured.

"I'm sorry, Anya," Eragon whispered. "You'll be OK, I promise."

Then he had to jump away as Blaze's sword swung through the air near him. It was only Eragon's extra powerful senses that warned him of the incoming blow. If he'd been a regular human he would have been decapitated.

He spied Gaia and Zuleika, still trading blows a little way off, and raced towards them. If he could at least save _somebody_'s life today…

When he reached them, he skidded to a stop and, flipping Blödslytha around in his hand, slammed the pommel of the sword into the side of Gaia's head, hard enough to knock her unconscious, but not enough to cause concussion or anything like that. Then, as the girl fell to the ground, he grabbed Zuleika's forearm.

"Come on!" he yelled, dragging her behind him. Another crossbow bolt whizzed by his cheek, actually scratching it and drawing beads of blood to the surface of his skin, and buried itself in the snow.

Eragon didn't know where he was going, he just knew that he had to get away from the Careers, and he had to save Zuleika. The pain in his arm was growing more and more intense as time went by, a fiery, burning torment concentrated in a tight ball of existence just beneath his shoulder. He could feel blood soaking through the multiple layers of cloth around the wound, and hoped it wasn't going to haemorrhage. He knew how lucky he was for the bolt to have only skimmed through his flesh. If it had hit his arm full on his bone would have been pulverized; after all, crossbows were designed to shoot through armour.

Eragon veered west, towards the forest, back the way he and the Careers had come from, drawing a wide loop around them. He was a lot faster than they were, should they decide to chase him, and knew he could escape, but Zuleika was with him. Well, so be it. He wasn't going to let her die, not when her companion – Anya – was already no longer alive.

Zuleika yanked her wrist free of his grip and he turned around, afraid that she thought he was going to kill her, but saw to his relief that she was still running behind him. In fact, she was surprisingly fast, considering her stocky build. She drew up alongside him and shouted, "Where are we going?"

"I don't know," Eragon replied, raising his voice to be heard over the crunching of their feet through the snow and the whistling of the bitterly cold wind. "Away from _them. _Do you trust me?" He risked a glance back and saw Blaze and Sharker – Gaia must still have been unconscious – chasing them, racing across the icy white expanse that seperated the two groups. They were still wolves, hunting in a pack, only this time Eragon, instead of being a wolf himself, was their prey.

"Well, are you trust_worthy_?" asked Zuleika, the words slipping out between ragged gasps of breath.

"I like to think I am," Eragon half-smiled, but it was hard to make a joke when they were fleeing for their lives. A silver bolt streaked past them and buried itself in the snow, tearing a cry of pain from Zuleika. "Are you OK?" he shouted, seeing blood begin to spread from a gash in her side.

"Yes," she panted, clapping a hand over the wound. "Just fine. Couldn't be better." Her tanned face, beneath the muffler, had gone very pale, and the pink, twisted scar on her cheek stood out in sharp contrast to her bloodless skin. Eragon felt a pang of worry for her, but they couldn't stop quite yet. Or could they?

"Carry on," he said, skidding to a halt and drawing Blödslytha, whose edges were still ruddy with Blaze's blood. "I'll catch up."

She didn't need to be told twice, and carried on loping through the snow. Eragon saw a zigzagging trail of red droplets behind her and hoped she wasn't too badly injured. But he couldn't do anything about that now.

It was easy to avoid the bolts that Sharker fired at him now that he was facing his pursuers, and Eragon ducked and twisted as he made his swift way towards the Careers, slipping away from the deadly silver quarrels, ignoring the stabbing pain in his arm that shot through him each time he moved. When he was only two meters away from his foes, he crouched, tensed the muscles of his legs, and leapt forwards. As he passed over the heads of Blaze and Sharker, he straightened his legs so that they stuck straight downwards like rods, and felt his feet connect bone-jarringly with his enemies' respective noses. For the first time, he thanked the gods for the metal studs on the soles of his boots.

Eragon flipped around and landed facing the way from which he'd come. Sharker was lying on the ground, evidently unconscious, his goggles splintered, and blood staining his muffler. But Blaze was still upright and very conscious. He turned to face Eragon who saw that his nose was completely flattened, and still had imprints of the studs that had broken it. He snarled, ressembling a savage beast, and was truly a frightening sight, what with his Kull-like size, the huge sword he'd just drawn and that glinted as if hungry for a taste of Eragon's flesh in his hand, the bloody gash across his chest, and his now almost deformed face.

"You little RAT!" he roared, charging towards Eragon, who waited patiently until Blaze's sword was a few centimeters from his throat, then dropped to the ground, sprang to his feet and slammed Blödslytha's pommel into Blaze's temple in a now familiar move. His enemy crumpled into the snow.

And finally, all was blessedly silent.

**OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO**

Eragon found Zuleika slumped against a tree at the edge of the forest, breathing hard, clutching her wound. The side of her coat was bright red now, and her face was even whiter than it had been before. She was, without a doubt, in a very bad state.

Ignoring his own injury, Eragon knelt down by her side. "Are you OK?" he asked, realizing as the words left his lips that it would have been hard for him to ask a more stupid question if he'd tried. "I mean – do you think you can hold on a while longer?"

Zuleika nodded, her breath coming in great raking gulps. Eragon took her arm and helped her to her feet, knowing that they should find a more sheltered place to make camp before they tended to their wounds. "Come on," he said, passing his own arm around her back. He tried to not flinch at the horrendous blast of agony this caused him. "Let's just go a little further into the woods, then we can rest."

They limped into the trees. Eragon had taken Sharker's quiver and crossbow and had them slung across his back over his backpack, but he'd tossed Blaze's sword into the undergrowth. It was far too large for Zuleika to wield properly, and he already had Blödslytha. In any case, he felt the situation could have been worse. He was alive, Zuleika was alive – well, for now, at least – and the Careers were unarmed and out cold. The only thing he regretted was Anya's death. He wished he could have saved her.

"Why are you doing this?" Zuleika asked weakly. "Why are you helping me?"

Eragon fumbled for an answer, not willing to tell the entire nation of Panem that he was unable to kill a tribute. Actually, they must have already guessed.

"Well, we're always stronger as a group, aren't we?" he said unconvincingly. "Strenght in numbers, all that…"

"You'd actually be better off without me," replied Zuleika. "Look at me. I'm injured. I'm a dead weight."

"I'm injured, too," Eragon pointed out. "And you're not a dead weight. I saw you duelling with Gaia, that girl with the knife. You were good, considering you only had a bit of wood as a weapon."

"I've lost that," said Zuleika. "But I suppose it won't be too hard to replace it." She looked up at the tangled web of branches above them.

"I've got you a crossbow," grinned Eragon. "Better than a piece of dead tree, I should imagine."

Zuleika laughed, and thay walked further into the woods, still deep in conversation. The shared words felt good after so long spent in the menace-laden presence of the aggressive Careers. They reminded Eragon of days past, days where he didn't have to fight for his life. Admittedly, there had never exactly been a lot of those, even in Alagaësia, but still, he felt nostalgic as he and Zuleika talked and laughed as they walked through the snowy trees.

Their easy conversation let Eragon believe that perhaps, just perhaps, there was still hope.

**OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO**

They stopped after about half an hour in a small glade, through which sliced a flashing blue stream. Eragon would have liked to find a better place to stop, but Zuleika's condition had worsened. The whole left side of her coat was drenched with blood, despite the hand she'd kept clamped over the injury, and she was trembling. If he was honest with himself, Eragon was relieved they had to halt here. His shoulder felt as if it had been branded by a white-hot iron, and each time he so much as twitched his arm, sharp spikes of pain slashed through his body, emanating from the wound. He helped Zuleika sit down against a tree, dropped his backpack, the crossbow and the quiver to the ground, and then ripped away the clothes that covered his injury, and assessed the damage.

It wasn't good. There was a blood-stained furrow through his flesh where the crossbow bolt had skimmed him, and more of the red liquid was still welling out of the wound. It was an ugly cut, but fairly shallow. Still, it hurt terribly, and the amount it was bleeding wasn't negligable. Eragon needed a bandage. But he didn't have one.

"What's that?" Zuleika asked faintly, pointing into the undergrowth. Eragon raised his eyes from the gash in his arm and saw a glint of silver amongst the tangled bushes. Hardly daring to believe his eyes, he walked over to it and confirmed what he'd already suspected: it was a parachute, sent from either his mentor or Zuleika's. He re-entered the clearing, grinning, and held up the floppy, shimmering bundle. "Look what I found!" he said.

"Well, what's in it?" asked Zuleika impatiently. Eragon hastily unwrapped the folds of cloth to reveal a roll of white fabric, a still-warm loaf of bread, and a small pot of – soup, he realized, when he unscrewed the lid and inhaled the hot, salty smell that drifted out. Tomato soup.

"It's our lucky day," he beamed, handing his finds to Zuleika. "Look at all this!" She turned the bread over in her hands, marvelling at the smoothness and warmness of it, her pain all but forgotten.

"Indeed it is," she agreed, lifting the loaf to her face to smell the comforting doughy scent of it. Eragon felt a wave of relief surge through him, and closed his eyes. Bandages. Proper food.

Perhaps now, Zuleika would live, and perhaps now, they would both be OK.

It was a slim hope, but it was all he had to cling to.

**OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO**

**And that's the end. Sorry, I ran out of inspiration halfway through, so… yeah. Just explaining why the quality dropped. **

**Anyway, that's that, stay tuned folks, and I will try to update the next chapter as SOON AS POSSIBLE. But aside from that, I have nothing else to say, so please review, good, bad, anything goes (ideally not bad, but constructive critisism) as long as it's a review, because you all know that reviews are what I live for. **

**See you all VERY soon! Or QUITE soon! Or NOT VERY soon at all!**

**And bye bye!**


	14. Chapter 13

**Yo! I'm back! Straight away, I want to say that I apologize sincerely for the terrible quality of this chapter. It's terrible, quite terrible. Nothing happens. And it's really short. Sorry again.**

**On the more POSITIVE side, I am on holiday now, two full blissful weeks of holiday (I actually didn't think I was going to make it out of term alive) and so I will have TONS more time to write this fanfic. Great news, huh?**

**Also, I FINALLY managed to watch the first Hunger Games movie recently. I must have been the only person on the planet not to have watched it before. It was amazing! SO COOL! I can't wait to watch the next one, and what's more it gave** **me loads of ideas for this fic. (Grins wickedly and rubs hands together.) Poor Eragon doesn't know what's going to hit him. **

**That said, remember to remind me of any glitches in this story, I own nothing, nothing at all, and of course, pleeeease… REVIEW!**

**OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO**

Premonition

Eragon sopped up the last of the tomato soup with his remaining crust of bread and tucked the lot into his mouth, closing his eyes to better savour the hot saltiness of the soup and the thick doughiness of the bread.

He and Zuleika were still in the clearing where they'd stopped earlier. They had bandaged their wounds with the supplies that had arrived in the silver parachute – the bandages hadn't really been bandages, but rather some kind of strange adhesive cloth that they'd had to cut up with Blödslytha, and that had served to remind Eragon of the oddness of the Capitol – then they'd divided up the food, cutting the loaf of bread in half and splitting the soup in two. Zuleika had taken the first turn eating out of the pot, then passed what remained to Eragon, who had devoured it with relish. The food hadn't been much, but it had allowed both of them that there was more to life than stale biscuits and cold meat. At least, that was what had been on Eragon's menu since he'd arrived in the arena. He didn't know what Zuleika had been eating.

He swallowed the mouthful regretfully and, standing up, said to Zuleika who was sitting against a tree, "We should get going. I knocked the Careers out, but that doesn't mean they won't find us when they wake up."

"Can't you deal with them like you did last time?" the girl asked, following his lead and getting to her feet. She winced and clutched at her side as a pang of sharp pain wrenched through her, but at least the wound had stopped bleeding since she'd applied the bandage, whose clean white colour was now stained a rusty red. "That was pretty awesome."

"I can," replied Eragon. "Doesn't mean I want to." He stretched and, with a grimace, shouldered his backpack. "Do you want the crossbow now or later?"

"Give it here," she said, holding out a hand. "I might as well take it. Should learn how to use it before my life actually depends on my skill with it." He handed her the sleek silver weapon and the quiver, and she slung both around her back. Then they set off, once again, through the spiny black trees, their footsteps crunching in the ice-crusted snow.

At a guess, Eragon would have said it was about one in the afternoon. Maybe an hour had passed since he'd bested Gaia, Blaze and Sharker, and they would almost certainly be awake by now, which was why he wanted to put as much distance between he and them before they fully recovered – because at least one of them, probably Blaze, as he'd been hit the hardest, would have concussion.

Eragon wrapped his gloved hand around Blödslytha's long hilt and fingered the pommel of his sword as he thought of what had occurred. It gave him a handicap, he knew that now, to not be able to kill another tribute. He didn't regret his choice, but he wasn't naïve enough to believe that just because he wouldn't kill _them_, they wouldn't kill _him_. Indeed, he had several times almost been murdered. It was just… it wasn't as if all of them deserved to live, was it? Gaia had seemed nice enough at first, but in reality she was just as ruthless as her male companions. Sharker was a brutal killer. And Blaze… well, Blaze was just a psychopath, nothing more, nothing less, the type of person who would string you up and bleed you dry just for a cheap laugh, never mind that you weren't alive to appreciate the humour.

But still. If they didn't realize that it was bad to murder another human being just to entertain an audience and for the chance of living in wealth and fame for the rest of your life, Eragon did, and that was precisely why he wasn't going to play this game. _These _games.

The Hunger Games.

**OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO**

They walked for hours, stopping only twice to change their bandages and drink from Eragon's water bottle. They didn't talk much, and the few words they exchanged were short.

As the day wore on, the ground slipped by beneath their feet, and very soon they found themselves nearly at the edge of the arena. Eragon worked this out by the means of the position of the sun in the sky and the long shadows he and Zuleika began to cast upon the pink and gold tinted ground. The sky was clear, and the gilded rays of the dying sun glittered against the frost-laden branches of the tall, snowy trees, almost as if there were tiny stars trapped within the tufts of needles that grew tuftily on their boughs. Eragon looked up at the broad, creamy sweep of golden heavens and marvelled at the beauty of the sight. It was strange that something so beautiful could exist in the same place that people made their young fight to the death, but somehow it was fitting. Like everything was balanced out. The earth was ugly, so the sky was magnificent. Like two sides of a coin, everything fit together in a perfect whole.

Eragon halted, and Zuleika did too.

"We should stop," he said, dropping his rucksack to the ground and unzipping it. "We need to sleep, and the Careers must have lost our scent by now." He held out the scrumpled ball of blanket to her. "Here."

"No, you keep it," she replied, sweeping a patch of snow away from the ground with the tip of her boot. "I don't mind much, and it _is _yours." She slumped against the gnarled base of a tree with a huff of breath, laid her crossbow and the quiver to one side, and examined the bloodstained rip in her coat.

"Take it," Eragon insisted, tossing the blanket to her. It fluttered out over her knees like an oversized bat. "I'll take first watch. One of us has to. And besides, you need to recover. Otherwise, as you said earlier, you won't be of any use to me." He removed the tinderbox from his backpack, then zipped it up again and threw it in her direction. "If you're hungry, there are biscuits in the outside pocket. I'm going to make a fire." He knelt down, brushing the frost and snow away from the ground, and started to build a small pyramid of twigs.

When he glanced over to Zuleika, he saw that she was already asleep, her eyes closed, her chest rising and falling. She looked so young… she was barely fifteen. But he knew that it would be of no use to worry. She had already proved that she could take care of herself.

And so as Eragon's small fire crackled into life, spitting incandescent sparks into the air, she slept, and the violet, star-spangled wing of dusk swept over the arena, and the moon rose, and Gaia, Blaze and Sharker continued to lope through the descending night.

But there were greater dangers than the Careers to contend with.

**OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO**

Seneca Crane strode into the Control Room. Things were not going to plan, and he most definitely was not happy.

At first, he had thought that Eragon Bromsson was a likely candidate for victor. He was strong, talented, not bad looking… He had all the qualities that Seneca expected to find in a victor. But things had gone downhill since Eragon's first encounter with the Careers, and had been steadily been getting worse since.

The tribute was simply knocking his opponents out cold. He was running around, pulling fancy moves, and instead of _killing _them, he was knocking them out. Which wasn't good. It wasn't good at all. People could get ideas from this, and he wasn't even considering what President Snow's reaction would be. Someone had to sort this mess of a situation out, and that someone was him.

Seneca entered the dazzlingly white, circular Control Room, and quickly trotted down the steps that led from the balcony to the operations area. All around a round table, people were flicking at holograms, pulling up rocks in some parts of the arena, cutting off rivers in others, basically trying to create a satisfactory show for the people of the Capitol, and trying to install fear in the hearts of the people of the Districts.

He walked over to one of the most talented Gamemakers, a young woman called Inëa. Stopping behind her and folding his hands behind his back, he said to her quietly, "I need you to get rid of Eragon Bromsson of District Twelve. As soon as possible. He's sending a bad message."

Inëa didn't even raise her head, just pulled up a transparent interface that allowed her several gory means of death for the tributes. Tucking a lock of her curly gold-streaked flashy pink hair behind an ear that was heavy with gems, she said, "Of course. Do you have a particular… preference? I've got a landslide, a staked pit, a raging torrent just begging to burst its banks, a pack of wolves, and even though the average temperature of the arena is minus fifteen degrees Celsius, I'm sure I can arrange a forest fire…"

His hand landed heavily on her white-clad shoulder, and his voice was quiet when he spoke. "Try muttations. Nasty ones. And make absolutely sure he doesn't survive."

**OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO**

_Beneath the arena… _

The darkness was thick down here. It hung heavy in the cold air of the warren of long tunnels and twisting corridors and solid iron gratings behind which crouched or paced nameless horrors.

It was astonishingly silent in this sprawling maze. Of course, there were the snarls and hisses and shrieks of its monstrous denizens, the awful creatures created by the Capitol to satisfy its own craving for entertainment – however morbid that entertainment may be – but other than that, there was only silence.

Which was suddenly broken as the Gamemaker, up there in that spotless Control Room, pressed the button that would release the chosen muttation. Doors slid open with a metallic whirring, barriers dropped into the floor with echoing clangs, as this labyrinth of steel walls and electric cables rearranged itself to form a perfect path from the muttation's cage to the snowy, sleeping arena.

A throaty growl rippled out through the gloom as a swarm of burning yellow eyes pierced the all-consuming darkness.

**OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO**

**Da end! I do love my cliffhangers, and without wanting to brag, that was a PARTICULARLY fine one. I did SAY that the film had influenced the plot. **

**So, even thought this one was short, and pretty uneventful, you must have guessed that the next chapter is gonna be long, and pretty ACTION-PACKED. I'll give you one clue about it and one clue only: there will be muttations. But I don't think I'm giving too much away by saying that.**

**Please please please REVIEEEEEEW!**

**See you all hopefully very soon!**

**;D**


	15. Chapter 14

**Hi! I am BACK. With a nice, long, new chapter. Cool, huh? So, I have just a few things to say before we can start:**

**-First, thanks to my great reviewers: Dragonnetic, Ai Huiyuan, TimC, Madhatter. You really make me very very VERY happy, so don't think your reviews have been in vain! Thay brighten up my day considerably. Please keep posting reviews! I love you all! :D**

**-Next, to all you others who have been reading this fic and not posting reviews: please DO! It's not hard, it doesn't take long (barely thirty seconds) and they make me so so so so HAPPY! Then again, I don't decide what you do, but I would really appreciate it if you could find the time in your day to post a little smiley face (or, ideally, something a bit longer, but even a smiley face would be a start). Isn't it worth the sacrifice of that one minute of your entire DAY to live eternally in my mind?! (I might be laying it on a bit thick, but you've understood the general gist of it. Please review. It would be much appreciated. Thanks.)**

**-And finally, I own nothing!**

**Enjoy! (And I needn't say review, I think.)**

**;)**

**OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO**

Beasts of Blood

Eragon jolted awake, scrabbling for Blödhsytha, and feeling a small measure of relief when his fingers closed around its hilt.

He'd been taking the first watch, but hadn't been taking it very seriously, as he didn't think they were going to be ambushed in the middle of the night. Yes, there was the smoldering fire betraying their presence in this forest, its embers glowing dully in the darkness like the pulsing red and black markings of some demon tiger, but the trees around the clearing where Eragon and Zuleika had chosen to stop were thick and matted together. So Eragon had slumped down against a twisted root, closed his eyes and thought of Alagaësia and Saphira. And then, just when he'd been slipping into a nice doze, he'd heard the snapping of a twig. And a furtively hissed curse.

And he knew then, with a sense of weariness and dread, that the blasted Careers had found them.

Eragon got to his feet as silently as possible, which was very silently, and wrapped both hands around Blödhsytha as he sidled over to Zuleika and poked her awake with the tip of his boot. She awoke with a jolt and he held a finger to his lips, then mimed the Careers sneaking towards the clearing. She seemed to understand because she nodded and stood up, taking her crossbow in her hands. Eragon saw with approval that she'd loaded it before she'd fallen asleep, and that it was ready to fire.

Another twig cracked, nearer this time. Eragon decided that enough was enough, strode into the trees that bordered the glade, and came face to face with Sharker's glittering black eyes. Behind him hulked Blaze – complete with broken nose, slashed chest, and an ugly bruise on his head – and Gaia. Before they could move, Eragon grabbed Sharker by his lowered hood with his good arm, hauled him inside the clearing, flung him to the ground, and stood with his boot firmly planted on his chest and the tip of Blödhsytha resting against his muffler-covered neck.

"If any of you so much as _twitches,_" he warned, hoping that he sounded suitably menacing, "I will stab your friend here right through the throat and watch him bleed to death. Got it?"

"Go ahead and do that," sneered Blaze, cracking his knuckles. "I don't believe for a second you can do it. You spared our lives so many times before, I'm starting to wonder if you're not allergic to violence. Besides, even if you _do _slit his throat, it's not like I'm going to weep over his poor little body. We're an alliance, and nothing more." He stared at Eragon with something like grim amusement in his eyes.

Eragon took a deep breath. Could he really kill Sharker just to prove a point? No, of course he couldn't. But what was he to do, then? He swallowed hard and braced the point of his sword more firmly against Sharker's neck, ignoring the twinging in his shoulder. His victim stared up at him with a beseeching look in his dark eyes. His blond hair gleamed almost silver in the moonlight.

It was Zuleika who broke the silence in the end.

"For Anya," she said in a cool, hard voice, so unlike her usual intonation that Eragon turned to stare at her just in time to see her press the trigger of her crossbow.

The sleek bolt flashed through the air at an incredible speed, cutting through the frosty night like a knife through butter. With an unpleasant wet crunch, it buried itself in Blaze's chest, sending chips of bone and splashes of gore splattering outwards as it all but destroyed his ribcage. He was sent stumbling backwards by the force of the impact, and collapsed to his knees, his pale eyes wide with shock as his life ebbed out of him with each beat of his half-destroyed heart. He was already dead, his skin already cooling, before his face hit the snow.

A cannon boom echoed through the arena.

Eragon stared in shock, just like everyone else, apart from Zuleika. She looked a little nauseated but otherwise didn't seem to regret her actions.

"What was _that?_" Eragon snapped at her, coming out of his stupor. "Why did you _kill _him? He wasn't even attacking!" Sharker rolled out from beneath him and lurched unsteadily to his feet, but Eragon was too focused on Zuleika to react.

She shrugged. "He was going to. And shouldn't you be relieved instead of angry that I just saved your skin?"

"No!" he snarled. "I wouldn't have minded if this had been a fight. But it _wasn't. _It was a bloody _conversation._ We were _talking."_

At that moment, a rumbling growl disrupted their argument. Eragon, Zuleika, Gaia and Sharker all turned to look in the direction fom which it had emanated; the eastern side of the clearing.

"What was _that?_" Gaia murmured, drawing her knife, which she still had possession of.

"I'd rather we didn't find out," Sharker replied.

Then, in an explosion of broken branches and pine needles and snow, three enormous beasts burst out of the trees and landed in the clearing, slavering, drool dripping in slimy strings from their lips and hissing as it met the cold ground. They were each the size of an ox, covered in shaggy grey fur that was spiked up around their hackles, with paws the size of tree stumps from which curved foot-long, dagger-sharp claws. Their huge legs bulged with barely contained muscle, and their necks were as thick around as tree trunks, corded with sinews and tendons. Huge fangs pushed their way out of pale gums, and two massive tusks jutted out from their foam-specked jaws, pulling the skin of their muzzle into an intimidating snarl. Thick forked tongues thrashed at the air and their small, burning eyes glowed a fiery yellow. Their snake-like tails whipped at the ground, flicking snow and ice into the air, and each finished in a huge, spiny point that oozed a bright green liquid. Eragon had no doubt that it was venom. These monsters would be a match even for him, he thought queasily as he held Blödhsytha out in front of him and wondered vaguely how this night could get any worse.

"Zuleika," he said quietly but quickly as the beasts pawed at the ground, growling and gnashing their razorblade teeth together. "In fact, no, all of you. Get out of here. I'll hold them back. Just run. Go. Now."

Gaia didn't need to be told twice. She turned around and vanished into the darkness of the woods, her white-clad form soon swallowed by the shadows that lurked beneath the trees. Sharker seemed almost to hesitate, but then he too span on his heel and fled in the same direction as Gaia. Then only Zuleika remained. "I–" she began, but got no further as the largest of the three monsters flung itself at Eragon with an explosive, thundering roar. In two earth-shaking bounds, it was upon him, scattering the embers of the campfire as it came, and Eragon leapt into the air as high as he could, which was an easy four meters, planning to land on its back. He'd misjudged the beast's strenght and speed, though.

As he rose into the air, it reared up on its hind legs, the muscles of its thighs rippling as they took the weight of its body, and slashed one of its enormous paws towards him. Eragon tried to twist to the side but his attacker was too fast and its club of a paw was far too large to be avoided. So the foot-long, swordtip-sharp claws that protruded from the paw sliced through the air and punched into the flesh of Eragon's flank.

He was sent flying through the air and smashed into a tree trunk, and fell winded to the ground. His breath came in short wheezes as he lay there, blood pumping in hot spurts from the four large puncture wounds, dazed and shocked. The pain that flashed lightning-sharp and lightning-hot through his body was atrocious, a hundred times worse than when he'd been shot in the arm. Dimly, raising his head out of the snow and trying to ignore the black spots that buzzed around the corners of his vision, he saw two of the wolf-things worrying at a body, blood flying from their snapping jaws and speckling the grey fur of their snouts with crimson spots.

_ Zuleika…? _he managed to think woozily, blinking the tears from his eyes. Then he registered the largest of the beasts, the one that had attacked him, pounding towards his limp form. Eragon snapped fully awake and tried to stand up, but his muscles failed him and he slumped back down into the snow, causing a tidal wave of agony to swamp his body. For a few moments his vision flickered grey and he was unaware of everything, anything, except the horrendous pain tearing through his limbs. Then he heard a sharp yelp of pain and forced his eyes open once more, to the sight of the monster that had been about to rip him apart lying on the ground, an immobile mass, an arrow sticking out of its right eye. Even as he watched, another wolf creature fell, an arrow striking it in the same place as its companion. It thrashed around for a few seconds, churning the snow and the ground beneath it into a muddy mess, then lay still. It was dead. The last of the beasts was slain too in a matter of seconds.

And the clearing was silent.

Eragon let his head flop down again and took in the sight of his red-drenched coat. _I've lost far too much blood, _he thought dimly. _And where did those arrows come from?_ He grappled unsuccessfully with the question for a few long, pain-filled moments, then gave up, his mind beginning to shut down. His thoughts felt as thick as mud. Slowly, a greyish haze swam before his eyes, obscuring the carnage that littered the clearing.

_This isn't a bad place to die, _he reflected. A small glade, beneath a starry sky, in the heart of a shadowy forest… Why was he even here? He couldn't remember… but then, did it matter? No, not really… And where he went, there would be Saphira… and Arya… and Roran… and all the rest of them… His friends. And he would be home at last…

"Eragon!"

With great effort, Eragon forced his eyelids open, and what he saw swam before him, but he still managed to make out the anxious face of a young woman, half-obscured by a thick muffler around her neck and a pair of tinted goggles on her forehead. Her eyes were dark and uncovered. Her features were vaguely familiar to him… but who was she? The tip of a bow poked out over her right shoulder.

"Eragon!" Spikes of pain shot through him as she shook him by the shoulders. He managed a feeble moan.

"Ah, you see, you can make a sound!" The woman patted his cheek – quite hard – then busied herself at his flank. A surge of sheer agony crashed through him as she pressed a handful of ice-cold snow against the injuries in his side, and he cried out. Then, in a flash of lucidity, he recognized her face. Her brown eyes. Her dark braid.

"Katniss?"

She didn't look up from his wounds, but said, "You can thank whatever gods you worship that I was passing through, and that you were making a loud enough din for me to hear you and come save you with my bow and arrows. I don't think you would have made it otherwise."

"I… don't think I'm going to make it… at all," Eragon winced, his strenght still ebbing with every spike of pain that went through him. "What are you doing…with all that snow?"

"Trying to stop the bleeding," she replied, applying more pressure to the cuts. Eragon nearly blacked out. "But, um, it really is bleeding a _lot… _I'm not too sure what I can do. My mother is a healer, but I don't think I inherited her skills… All I know is that snow should stop you bleeding out. But, the thing is, it doesn't seem to be working." She bit her lip and furrowed her brow in concentration as she held the wad of snow more firmly against the puncture marks.

"I… there are some bandages in… my pack," Eragon gasped out. "Over there… somewhere. They should… help." He lifted a shaking arm and pointed towards where he'd last seen his rucksack. Katniss rose to her feet and vanished for a few seconds, then reappeared, carrying the bulky backpack. She slung it down on the ground and rummaged through it, until she found the roll of bandages Eragon had spoken of. The last thing he saw was her cutting a large square of white plaster from the roll with Blödhsytha, which must have been lying close by.

Then the swirling blackness that had been gathering at the corners of his vision consumed him entirely as the blood loss took its toll and Eragon fainted.

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**Don't ask me quite HOW I managed to last for 2200 words describing only a fight. Seriously. I don't know how I did it. But, well, I did it, and at least it was a long chapter (by my standards, that is.) **

**So, Katniss has found Eragon! Finally! But he's pretty beaten up by the fight with the mutt, so who knows if he'll survive? Not me. Well, he definitely would have died if Katniss hadn't come along to save him. That's all I can say.**

**Anyway, next chapter up soon, so please. Please. Please. Please.**

**REVIEEEEEEW! (Just down there. You press that button. Isn't hard. I'm counting on you!) **

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	16. Chapter 15

**And here, ladies and gentleman, is a chapter that is longer than 2500 words! (And here you're supposed to gasp and cry: "It's a miracle!" "I thought it was just a legend!" or you can just say nothing at all because the average length of the chapters of OTHER fanfics is about 5000 words. I'm ashamed.) Unfortunately, this miraculous chapter is… not very good. In fact it is quite terrible. But never mind, there is no action whatsoever, nothing really at all apart from another of Eragon's weird psychotic dreams, and you can stop reading this fanfic right here if you want but please DON'T! Please! On that matter, I would like to thank the reviewers of my last chapter, Dragonnetic, Ai Huiyuan, and Nine! Thank you all SO MUCH! I know I sound pathetic but I really am veeeeery grateful to all of you. If it's not too much to ask, please carry on reviewing!**

**Other than that, I have nothing much to say apart from that I watched the second Hunger Games movie yesterdy and it was even better than the first one it was AMAZING if you haven't watched them yet then WATCH THEM because they are SO GREAAAAAT and I own nothing and of course even though I've already said it please please please REVIEW!**

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Dreams and Tales

_Once again, he stood in the glowing forest. The marble-like, leafless branches of the trees were shrowded in a softly shining haze of violet and blue that obscured what sky there might have been. The carpet of green moss was soft and spongy beneath his bare feet. And of course, at his side stood Saphira._

_ By unspoken consent they walked, slowly, following an unseen path. Saphira's wings rustled against the alabaster tree trunks, and cast a shimmering light upon Eragon's skin. He was the first to speak._

I cannot do this anymore, _he said. _It is too hard.

_Saphira snorted, releasing a small puff of smoke from her nostrils. She bent her head to touch his shoulder with the tip of her nose. _The hero of the Varden says that it is too hard? _she replied incredulously. _You are Eragon Shadeslayer. You have put up with far worse hardships than this without complaining. Nothing is "too hard" for you.

This is, _he said. _It is different to the war against Galbatorix. Their world is strange, and even though Galbatorix was evil, do you think he would have pitted children against one another? Some of my supposed "enemies" are barely twelve years old. The Hunger Games are monstrous indeed.

_The azure dragon appeared to consider this for a while, her gleaming __indigo__ eyes slitted as she pondered his words. _

Eragon, _she said finally, _you do not know the context in which these children are fighting. Of course I think that it is an evil thing. But… perhaps you should not be so quick to judge when you know not the history of their world.

_Eragon, infuriated, stepped in her path, blocking her way. He stared up at the hulking dragon, fire in his gaze. _How can you say that? _he spat. _I don't care about what events brought the Games into being. I don't care about what wars were waged, or how many people died. I don't care about any of that. All I know is that these children are innocent. How can they not be? They're children, Saphira. Some of them are younger than I was when I found your egg in the Spine. I recently saw a boy butcher a girl who had to be fourteen at most. She was called Anya. And now she's dead, and her parents will mourn her, and you say that I shouldn't judge her true murderers: the people who watch us die, the people who _laugh _as we die. _He turned away from her, not waiting to hear her reply. _

_ She was silent for a long while, and Eragon stood there, shoulders heaving, breathing heavily. He had to put a lid on his anger. Saphira was not in the arena with him. She could not know what atrocities these people were committing._

I am sorry, _she murmured. _I should not have spoken like that. I know nothing of the world of which you speak. But, Eragon… _here she snaked her great, spiny head around to look him in the eye, and snapped her jaws together once, and he glimpsed a flash of white fangs inside her mouth. _I want you to know that if I were in that arena with you, I would breathe flames upon every inch of it, and watch as it burnt. And then I would fly out, and I would fly to the king's rat-nest-city, no matter how far or how well armed or how well defended it was, and I would smash every last stone to rubble. And then I would tear the people who watched you fight in the arena to bloody shreds and leave them for the rats and the birds of carrion, and then I would take the king himself in my jaws and burn him alive, and then I would rip his ashes apart and scatter them far and wide in his kingdom, so that he would never be able to rest in peace. And then, and only then, would I be content. _She snorted again, and the puff of wispy smoke seemed to act as a full stop to her speech. She withdrew her head and Eragon turned back round to face her. He smiled._

Thank you, _he whispered, placing one hand upon her thickly armoured chest. _You don't know how much better that made me feel.

_Saphira grinned one of her ferocious, wolfish grins._

The only thing is_, he added, resting his brow against her glittering scales_, I think it is a president, not a king, who rules over the land.

_She growled, and he felt the thrum of her powerful muscles against his skin. _No matter. President, king, I am sure all of them taste good enough after being roasted with dragonfire.

_Eragon closed his eyes, and trailed his finger tips down her silky-smooth, diamond-hard, sea-blue hide. _Again, thank you, _he murmured so softly she would not have heard his words had they not been linked by their minds. _Truly. I feel strong enough to return there now. Will I find you here again?

_Saphira hummed gently and folded her velvet wings around him. _I will always be anywhere for you, little one.

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Eragon awoke blearily, feeling disorientated. He tried to raise himself into a sitting position, but a sharp, searing blast of agony slammed into him, making his stomach lurch and his eyes water with pain. He fell back, gasping, and stared up at the pale blue sky that was visible through a criss-crossing web of branches.

"You _might _want to be a little more careful with that," said a female voice from somewhere nearby. "It's not a flesh wound. At least two of your ribs are broken, but I don't think they're piercing a lung. And you lost a good deal of blood."

Eragon turned his head to one side and saw Katniss sitting on a rock to his right, idly playing with her bow. The sight of her brought memories of the horrendous previous night – the Careers, the wolf creatures, his injury… The place he was in now didn't seem like the clearing of the battle, though.

"How long have I been out for?" he asked weakly, gazing up at the puffy white clouds that scudded overhead. "And where are we?"

Katniss hopped nimbly down from her rock and crouched next to him. "You were unconscious for a little more than half a day," she replied. "And we're a few hundred meters from the clearing where you were attacked by the mutts. I carried you over here –" she paused, and amended, " – _dragged _you over here. The Capitol had to collect the bodies." She sat back, then added as an afterthought, "You're heavy."

Eragon felt a chill crawl down his spine at the word _bodies._ "Who died?" he asked. "Actually, no, I know the answer to that question. Blaze and Zuleika, right?" A small pang of regret and grief went through him at the loss of his ally.

"I don't know their names," said Katniss, "but there was a really big guy and a girl with a crossbow."

"That's them," he said. "What did you call those things? The wolf creatures. You put a name to them just now."

"What, the mutts?" repeated Katniss. "Yeah, well, they're genetically engineered monsters… animals… things, created by the Capitol for the Hunger Games. To kill the tributes, as you must have guessed." She sat back, then seemed to have a second thought and leaned forwards, pulling her muffler down and placing her lips against his ear. Eragon suppressed a shiver. He might be fighting for his life, but he hadn't stopped loving Katniss.

"Remember," she whispered, her voice little more than a breath, "you're supposed to be from District Twelve, so _try _to act like you know what's going on. Odds are, we're live in front of the whole of Panem at the moment." She withdrew, and Eragon considered her words. He nodded.

"All right," Katniss said, tucking her braid into her hood and standing up, "I'm afraid this isn't a hospital here. It's an icy cold arena, there are people roaming around who are after our blood, and we're in danger. Unfortunately, you're gonna have to get up." She held out a hand, and Eragon noticed the absence of her outer gloves, like Sharker. He grimaced.

"My ribs are broken."

"Unless we move right around _now _you're going to hurt a whole lot more," Katniss insisted, thrusting her hand towards him. "It's not a wound that will heal in five minutes. We haven't got enough time to stick around here and weep over your poor, beat-up little body."

"I'm hungry," said Eragon, stalling, but also realizing that he hadn't eaten anything very substantial for a good deal of time. "There are biscuits in my pack, which I really hope you've brought with us. Pass me one, will you?"

Katniss sighed, vanished from his field of vision, then reappeared with a crumbling biscuit in her hand. She shoved it into his mouth (his muffler was around his neck) then, while he was spluttering around the stale piece of biscuit, she seized his gloved hand in hers and hauled him to his feet. He yelled, spewing crumbs everywhere, as a fiery bolt of pain tore through his bandaged flank. Eragon doubled over and pressed his hands against his ribs, but that only made it worse, so he took them away.

"Not cut out to be a healer, are you?" he hissed from between clenched teeth. Katniss shook her head.

"Not exactly, no," she said. "My mother passed that particular trait to my sister, but not to me."

"Great," Eragon snorted, the pain in his side receding, but still throbbing angrily each time he drew breath or moved suddenly. He stood up straight, wincing, and feeling light-headed from loss of blood. "At this precise moment, I'd rather your little sister were in the arena than you. She'd certainly be of more use."

"Ah, but what saved you from the mutts?" Katniss asked, winking at him. She shouldered Eragon's rucksack and her bow. "Me and my amazing archery skills." She suddenly grew serious. "Let's cut the banter. We'll need to be more prepared than this if we're going to survive." She handed him Blödhslytha, sheathed in its gleaming silver scabbard. "Are you strong enough to carry this?"

Eragon took the heavy weapon and slipped it through his belt. "It's fine." In truth it wasn't fine, it hurt like a hot brand was pressed against his ribs when he moved with the sword hanging off him, but the reassuring weight of Blödhslytha at his waist more than made up for that uncomfortable fact. He set his jaw resolutely. "Let's go."

Katniss nodded approvingly, and they set off through the snow-laden forest.

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After half an hour, they had to stop. Eragon's claw-wounds hurt terribly, and he felt weak and woozy. Katniss watched him with something like concern in her dark eyes as he lowered himself onto a log and took deep, gulping breaths of the cold air.

"I'm fine," he choked out. "It's just… the blood loss, I guess. I'll be over it tomorrow." He leant his elbows on his knees and looked down at the ground, trying to get his strenght back. He might have the body of an elf and the abilties of one too, but that didn't mean he recovered miraculously after an injury of that size and depth. "At least, I hope I will, because otherwise we're in deep trouble."

Katniss sat down next to him, brushing powdery snow off the pitted and gnarled wood. She rubbed his back while they sat in silence for a while. Eragon knew that while she was trying to hide it, she was impatient to keep moving and a little irritated that he was slowing them down.

"So, what's happened to you so far?" he asked, to take her mind off the fact that they should start moving again and also out of genuine curiosity. "Has it been as much of a ride for you as it's been for me?"

She shrugged. "At the Cornucopia, I grabbed this bow and arrows, and I was lucky enough to make it out alive with no _serious _wounds." She placed emphasis on this word as she showed him a bloody scrape on her left forearm. "A little blond bastard gave it to me, but it could have been worse. So, I took off running towards the forest, and survived in there for a little while. A day, maybe? Two? Anyway, I was hunting – I didn't have a rucksack or any kind of supplies, so that's been my main source of food, aside from bark and pine needles – " here she made a face " – Don't recommend them. They're disgusting. As I was saying, I was hunting when I heard these horrible growls and snarls. Please don't ask me why, but I set off towards where they were coming from and found these massive mutts ripping a group of people to shreds."

"It was hardly a _group,_" protested Eragon. "It was me and Zuleika. And there was Blaze, I suppose, but Zuleika had already shot him, so he doesn't count."

Katniss shot him a glare. "Leave me out of your love life. All I saw was a pack of enormous fang-filled muttations tearing up a corpse and splatters of blood everywhere in the clearing, so excuse me for thinking there were more than two people there. In any case, I set upon them with my bow because that's just who I am, and then, lying on the ground and covered in an alarming amount of your own blood, I found you. And of course you know the rest." She paused for a moment, then asked, "How _did _you get covered in such an alarming amount of your own blood? I thought your field of predilection was swordsmanship and that you were really excellent at that." She grinned, and Eragon sighed, then regretted it as a spasm of pain ripped through his guts.

"You're not still toting those words around, are you?" he said incredulously. "I said them in the Capitol. That was – " he thought for a second. "Actually, that wasn't so long ago. But still. Anyway, to answer your question, I _am _very good with a sword, but those… mutts got me by surprise, and they were very powerful." Eragon shifted slightly on the log and winced. "And I guess I underestimated them perhaps a little bit."

Katniss gaped at him. "The great warrior Eragon? He _underestimated _his enemy? My, that will be a tale for my grandchildren."

"Oh, come on," smiled Eragon. "Hasn't it ever happened to you?"

Katniss got off the log and held out a hand to him. "Never," she said firmly. "And I have no intention of it ever happening."

Eragon took her hand, and let her haul him to his feet, and once again, they started off through the snow beneath the watchful black trees.

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**I am sooooooooo sorry for that chapter. Really. Nothing I say can possibly add to that fact. I am so ashamed that I will now withdraw humbly, and all that I ask of you is to please… review. (Of course. You must have guessed it.)**

**;) **


	17. Chapter 16

**And here we are with chapter sixteen! By the way, I'm sorry that these chapters are all starting to ressemble each other quite a lot, my inspiration-o-meter must be low. But I'll be sure to recharge it this evening when I watch the last installement of the Mockingjay. (I'm gonna see Finnick die… He's my favorite character… *sobs*) Hmm, anyway, so as I was saying I'll try to make the next chapters better. But there are only, say, three or four chapters left.**

**Also, thanks to Dragonnetic, Ai Huiyuan, and Guest for their reviews. Really. I'm grateful. Thank you for reviewing. Please carry on reviewing. :D**

**I own nothing. Nobody. Now, let's carry on with the fic!**

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Fire and Ice

The sun was setting over the arena, a burning yellow disk melting into the horizon. Eragon and Katniss were still trudging through the icy forest, their stomachs rumbling and their moods low. Katniss had shot a kind of rabbit-like animal earlier which they'd cooked quickly over a small fire and devoured hungrily, but it had been small and bony and so hadn't filled them up.

"When are we going to stop?" asked Eragon, rubbing his ribs. "Only, I hurt pretty much all over and I'm starving. Can't we make camp here and hunt some food?"

"Let's carry on a bit longer," Katniss replied, without turning around. "I want to put as much distance between us and the site of the attack as possible."

"What, you think the mutts are still around? That's not possible, Katniss. You shot every one of them. Unless you think they're going to come back to haunt us…"

She pointed up at the pink and gold star-streaked sky. "Haven't you forgotten something? The Gamemakers, Eragon. Think a little bit. What's stopping them from sending more in?"

"Oh…" said Eragon as he realized it and feeling a bit of an idiot. "Of course. But we might as well stop here, then. If the mutts can enter the arena anywhere…"

Katniss stopped. "You're right. Oh well, then I guess we'll make camp here. You start a fire and I'll go find us some dinner." She dropped Eragon's rucksack to the ground, nocked an arrow to her bowstring and headed off into the darkening woods.

Sighing, Eragon knelt painfully and started gathering twigs. Once he had a decent fistful, he built a pyramid of them and scattered some tinder beneath it, which he set alight with a few deft strokes of the flint against the steel. Soon, a small blaze was roaring. He added larger sticks until the fire was a decent size, a flickering mass of red and yellow flames against a shadow-filled background.

He sat down by it, crossing his legs beneath him, and held his hands over the rising warmth as he waited for Katniss to return. She'd been gone for a little longer than twenty minutes now.

Sure enough, she came back, holding two hares in her left hand and her bow in the other. Blood stained the animals' pale fur a rusty red. She tossed them onto his lap and Eragon gazed down at their two limp bodies.

"I suppose you want me to skin and gut them," he said in a resigned voice.

"I suppose I do," Katniss replied, squatting down and crossing her arms over her knees. "You're the one with the sword."

"A sword isn't a knife," Eragon said. "It'll be messy, but who cares anymore."

He set to work on the animals, cutting them open and emptying them of their insides, then skinning them and cutting off their heads and tails. Once that was done, he speared them both on sharp pieces of wood and handed one to Katniss. They held the hares over the fire, occasionnally turning them, as their skins grew brown and crackly. A mouth-watering smell drifted through the air.

Eragon still felt bad about eating animals, but not as much as he had in Alagaësia. He didn't know why, but assumed that it was because he could no longer sense animals' thoughts and feelings, and so he'd become detached mentally from them. For some reason, that bothered him; it was as if he'd become a heartless killer. But his rational side told him that meat was the main source of food in the arena, and the most filling. If he didn't eat animals, he would starve. He kept repeating that to himself as he withdrew the spit from the flames and blew on the lump of meat speared on the end, but it didn't stop him from feeling slightly nauseated when he bit into the flesh and felt skin crunch beneath his teeth. He despised himself even more for actually enjoying the savoury taste and the texture of the food.

"So," said Katniss as she gulped down a mouthful, "how are your ribs feeling?"

"Bad," Eragon replied. "But that was to be expected. I'm actually relieved that nothing worse happened to me. For example, a bone could have punctured my heart, or the mutt could have hit me in the chest and cut my heart open, or it could even have hit me on the head and broken my skull open, killing me on the spot…"

"Wow," remarked Katniss after a pause. "You're just bursting with the joys of life, aren't you?"

Eragon gave a weary smile. "I'm only thankful that I'm still able to move. That I still have a chance to win the Games."

There was a long silence.

"Sorry," Eragon said. "I think I just killed the conversation. Let's not talk about the Games, shall we?"

"That may be a good idea," Katniss said, taking another voracious bite out of her hare. "I'm starving. If there hadn't been a bow and arrow at the Cornucopia, I would have been pretty much done for. In this arena, everything relies on being able to find food. It's not like in, for example, a forest arena, where there are roots and berries and stuff like that. In here, everything's frozen over."

"But you know snares, right?" Eragon asked. "You could have hunted that way. Sure, it'd be more time-consuming, but it would work."

She shrugged. "I suppose so."

For several minutes, the crackling and popping of the campfire and the soft hooting of an owl nearby were the only sounds. Eragon peered up into the velvety shadows that shrouded the branches of the trees overhead and his elven eyes caught sight of a pair of gleaming yellow eyes, and around that, a ruffled mane of snowy white feathers. He smiled, somehow comforted by the presence of the night bird.

"What are you smiling at?" Katniss asked. He pointed upwards towards the owl and she craned her neck back. "There's nothing there."

"No, there's an ow…" Eragon began, then saw that the bird had disappeared. "Oh, I guess it's flown away." And then he heard it.

A low, rumbling growl.

"Actually, I think it got frightened off," he muttered as he leapt to his feet and drew Blödslytha. "Katniss, get up quickly. Get your bow. We're moving out of here."

She'd heard the growl to and jumped up, dropping her spit as she grabbed the rucksack and slung it on her back, then picked up her bow and fit an arrow to the string, turning wary circles as she tried to work out where the sound had come from.

"Do the Gamemakers _hate _you or something?" she hissed as she scanned the darkness draped between the trees.

"I don't know and I don't care," he murmured back as he held Blödslytha out in front of him. "If we run, it'll provoke them, and they'll be after us like cats after a mouse."

"Well, we can't fight them," Katniss snapped. "They're three times as big as me. And they're built like bloody battering rams. I –"

She got no further. An enormous wolf muttation burst out of the trees and landed on Katniss, projecting her to the ground and knocking her bow from her hands. It snapped its foaming jaws together over her face and snarled.

"KATNISS!" Eragon yelled, sprinting over, ignoring the screaming agony of his ribs, unaware of anything, everything, except that he had to save her. He jumped into the air, skimming over the shoulders of another mutt, and landing in a lithe crouch on the thickly-muscled back of Katniss's attacker. In a flash of steel, he placed his sword against the neck of the mutt and slashed out, cutting through veins and tendons. Blood splashed from the wound as the wolf muttation staggered, pink saliva bubbling up around its lips, and allowed Katniss to free herself from beneath its claws. She grabbed her bow, panting, and nocked an arrow faster than any human Eragon had ever seen. She release it with a _twang _and it lodged itself in the mutt's eye. The creature fell.

But more were coming, two, three, five, seven of them, a vicious snarling mass of grey fur and knotted muscles and slavering fangs and venomous tails, surging like a wave straight towards Katniss and Eragon. There were too many to fight. They ran.

Eragon's injuries were sending surge after surge of mind-numbing agony through his body, but he kept up his pace, tearing through the dark forest like fire was at his heels – which, in a way, it was –, vaulting over fallen trees and ducking beneath low-hanging branches. He couldn't stop to check if Katniss was behind him, he could only hope she was, because if he stopped now he'd be ripped to shreds. He would surely take out one or two mutts with him, but what was the point of killing them when, at any moment, the Gamemakers could send in a hundred more?

It was nightmarish. All he was aware of were the howls and roars of their pursuers, the snow sliding beneath his boots, the haze of darkness hanging ahead of him like an unnatural veil, and the icy coldness of the wind against his bare cheeks; he hadn't had time to pull up his muffler. Blödslytha was still in his gloved fist, snagging on bushes and branches. He shoved it back in its scabbard, and after a few clumsy attempts, it slid in, leaving his hands free.

"Katniss!" he shouted, hoping for a reply, fearing the lack of one. "Are you there?"

"I'm alright," she panted, drawing up alongside him. "We can't keep running forever, though."

They both leapt simultaneously over a log and carried on running.

"We can't fight the mutts, either," said Eragon grimly. "I'm hoping something will happen that will give us the advantage."

"Well, it had better –" Katniss began, then ducked as a thick branch whistled by where her head had been a second before "– hurry up!"

Then they stopped talking, and concentrated only on the repetitive cycle of oxygen in and out of their lungs, and the careful placing of their feet on the uneven, rock-studded ground. Eragon was starting to feel light-headed, and he could feel blood seeping from the injuries in his side. The last thing he wanted was to pass out, here, in this black, tangled forest, and be torn to pieces by the wolf muttations. In the sky, high above them, he was dimly aware of the anthem booming, and of an artificial light being shed down on the earth below – too weak to see by, but strong enough for him to know that the pictures of the dead tributes were being projected against the stars.

"Uh-oh," said Katniss, drawing him back from his thoughts.

"What is it?" Eragon asked wearily. What new monstrosity had arrived to try and steal their lives?

"Water," she said. "Dead ahead. You remember that kind of sea at the south of the arena?"

Oh, he did, and only too well. He also remembered thinking that only a foolhardy or a desperate person would venture there.

"What about it?" he gasped. "You don't mean –" There it was. A glint of icy water in the fake light of the Capitol symbol.

"Jump!" she yelled, springing into the air. Eragon followed her lead, propulsing himself over the wave-whipped sea lapping at the roots of the forest. Ahead of him, as far as he could see, was water, foaming, thrashing water, studded with lumps of ice tossed hither and thither upon the whitecaps. He only had time to think _Oh no, _before he landed hard on something cold and slippery, turned head over heels – the world was a whirl of sliding, falling, moonlight, ice – caught himself on a jagged outcrop and felt an intense coldness flash through one of his feet. He pulled it out of the freezing water, shuddering violently, and scrambled up to the tip of the piece of ice he was marooned on, searching for a sign of Katniss. His body was a mix of burning pain and biting cold. He hurt all over and he felt horribly ill.

But he wasn't dead yet.

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**And there we go. The end. That was still 2000 words, by the way. I'm SORRY that this is a (kind) of cliffhanger, as I know how… hazardous they can be to Dragonnetic's health ;) but don't worry, I'll try to update soon. Even though I'm going back to school on Monday, aaarrgh!**

**See you soon! **

**Bye!**

**Remember to review on the way out please please please please please please! Just down there! **

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	18. Chapter 17

**Yo! Here I am! So, biiig news: school has officially been closed. Coronavirus, Covid-19, of course. Now, I am worried about it, everybody is, I'm not taking it lightly, you should know that, but meanwhile I'll have more time to write fanfiction and… naturally… revise. But there we are, it's not a holiday. It's a quarantine. So work and all that continues as (almost) normal.**

**This chapter is really short, by the way, only about 1100 words long, sorry. But the next one will be better. Of course, THANK YOOOOOOOOUUUUUUUUUUUU for your reviews, Dragonnetic, Ai Huiyuan, Madhatter, YOU ALL MAKE MY DAY! When I can't reply, I'm sorry, I sometimes don't have time but I LOVE YOUR REVIEWS I LOVE YOU ALL THANK YOU!**

**Now, I own… nothing. And with that said, enjoy!**

**OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO**

Adrift on an icy sea

Eragon hauled himself to the top of his slippery perch and looked back towards the forest. The mutts still stood there, snapping and snarling and thrashing their heads around, flinging strings of drool into the water. Two of them had leapt off the shore and into the sea, and were writhing around, sinking before Eragon's very eyes. As he watched, their fur became waterlogged, dragging them down, and their heads sank beneath the surface. The last he saw of them was a flash of white fangs. And then nothing.

Eragon tore his eyes from the gruesome sight and twisted around, rising into a low crouch, as he searched for Katniss. He saw her a little way away, clinging to another lump of ice, the rucksack on her back along with her bow and quiver of arrows.

"Are you all right?" he shouted to her. She nodded, and replied, "Do you think you can jump from there to here, or do you want me to come over to you?"

He considered that for a moment. He was a lot stronger and more agile than Katniss, but his broken ribs complicated the matter. Still, he figured it would be less dangerous for him to jump than for her. He got to his feet, tensed his muscles, and leapt, flying over the choppy white sea.

Eragon only just made it onto Katniss's ice island. He hit the edge of it and his feet splashed into the water. Barzûl, that cold; it was worse than any he'd known before. He wrenched them out and slithered up onto the wet ice, Blödhslytha at his waist slipping and clanking against it.

"You alright?" Katniss said as she took his arm and helped him into a safe position.

"Fine," he gasped out through chattering teeth. "Never been better." Now that they were no longer in any immediate danger, he could take in the situation. The island they were sitting on was quite big, about four meters long and three wide, but bumpy and uneven. It was drifting further from the forest with every passing moment, borne on the wild sea. The wolf-mutts were watching them get away with frustration burning in their dirty yellow eyes.

"Well," Katniss noted with her usual dry sarcasm, "that _was _a close thing. Any longer than that and they would have torn us into little pieces… But what is it they say, again? Out of the frying pan and into the fire?" She shivered in the cold air, despite her thick layers of insulating clothing, and gazed out at the stormy seascape. "This is about as far from a fire as you can get, so I guess we're safe."

"I certainly hope so," said Eragon. "Shouldn't we be paddling or something? To get closer to the shore? I don't want to meet those mutts again, but I definitely don't want to be caught in the middle of a sea of freezing water when the Gamemakers decide to melt the ice we're sitting on."

"Yeah, and what do you want to paddle _with_?" asked Katniss. "Your sword?"

Eragon slumped down, defeated. "We're in the hands of fate now, then."

She didn't reply.

**OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO**

A few hours later, the sun began to spill its golden rays across the water, gilding the edges of the waves and warming Eragon and Katniss, but only very faintly. As time passed, it rose higher into the pale pink sky, casting long blue shadows on the lumpy ice. Eragon tilted his face towards it and closed his eyes. If only they had a fire…

"I'm hungry," said Katniss, rifling through the rucksack which she'd set down next to her. She held out something small and flat to him. "Biscuit?"

"Thanks," said Eragon, taking it and biting into it. "But it'd be good if we had something a little more filling." That gave him an idea. He looked up into the pale sky and said, "Haymitch, a bit of food wouldn't hurt. I want a bucket of stew, a bottle of wine and three loaves of freshly-baked bread."

"Do you really think he's going to send in all that?" Katniss asked dryly. Eragon grinned. "I doubt it, but anything's possible, right?"

When the parachute came, it drifted out towards the water. Eragon had to lean over the edge of the island and hold out Blödhslytha as far as it would go, and only just managed to snag the silver fabric on the tip of the blade. He hauled it back in and laid it on the ice. Katniss tore it open eagerly.

In the parachute were two rolls of bread dotted with small, pearl-like seeds, a packet of some kind of dried meat and another of dried fruit, raisins and pears and apples and the like. The was also a small – tiny, in fact – white tube containing a sort of paste. Eragon squeezed a dollop onto his glove and sniffed it curiously, wondering what it was for and whether it was edible. When Katniss saw it, she gasped.

"Don't waste it!" she cried, snatching the tube from him. "That must have cost a fortune. It's bone-fixing gel. No wonder it's so tiny: on the first day of the Games that would have still cost the earth. Its price must have quadrupled since." She was looking at the little thing with an almost religious awe. "You have brilliant sponsors."

"It could have been sent for you," Eragon pointed out.

"I don't have broken ribs, dummy," she shot back. "No, no, this is definitely yours. Here." She handed it back to him, and started seperating out the food.

They each ate a roll, relishing the puffy softness of the bread, and a few strips of the meat – it turned out to be a mix of beef and pork. Then they devoured the fruit, emptying the packet between them, and lay back. It was far from being a big meal, but after so long eating only biscuits and the occasional scrap of venison or rabbit, it felt wonderful.

A few minutes later, Eragon unscrewed the tube again and squeezed another pea-sized portion onto his finger. With his other hand, he pulled off the bandages covering his wounds, and sucked in an involuntary breath as he caught sight of the blood-streaked, torn mess that was his side. He even thought he could see a glint of broken bone in there.

Laying the soiled bandages aside, he cautiously touched the gel to the injuries and winced at the biting, burning, razor-sharp pain. With almost mechanical movements, he rubbed the cream into the flesh of his side, fighting the agony, knowing that afterwards he would no longer be in pain. Without being aware of it, he was breathing in ragged gasps, his breath coming laboured and effortfully. When he deemed that he'd smeared enough of the gel into his wounds, he opened his eyes – not realizing that he'd shut them – and heaved a great sigh of relief as the medicine kicked in and a blessed coolness spread through his body. Then he cut another square of bandage with Blödhslytha and stuck it over the injuries. And finally, when he'd packed everything away, he sat backwards and allowed himself a rest.

"Are you all right?" Katniss asked. "You seemed in a lot of pain there."

"I was," he said, "but I'm fine now. I feel good."

And they sat there together, not speaking, as the sun rose glitteringly over the vast expanse of water, as the stars faded from the sky, as the wolf-mutts returned beneath the arena, as the other tributes fought and were slain, as in the Control Room the Gamemakers devised new muttations, more ruthless ones, more savage ones, ones that would be able to follow Eragon both on land and through the sea.

**OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO**

**That's it! Finished! I don't have anything to say… so… please review, and goodbye! (See you soon, that is.)**

**:)**


	19. Chapter 18

**Here's my new chapter! I hope you like it, it's nearly 3000 words long, which is a biggie for me. So… I had a lot of things I wanted to say in this author's note but I've forgetten them all. If I remember them I'll tell you next time. THANK YOU TO MY REVIEWERS YOU GUYS MAKE ME SO SO SO SO HAPPY IT'S INCREDIBLE! THANK YOU!**

**Now… I own nothing. **

**Please enjoy!**

**;D**

**OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO**

Saphira, alone

The moment Eragon vanished in a blaze of fire-red-magic-light, Saphira cried out.

The shock she felt was immense, a rushing, roaring, devastating torrent that scalded her heart, her mind, everything at once, in a wave of grief and longing and panic. _His voice was gone. _It was no longer there. Gone. Her partner-of-heart-and-mind…

Gone.

Galbatorix had started to form the words, "Waì –" A spell, most certainly, but she wasn't going to give him the time to finish it. With a savage rumbling roar, she leapt forwards, landing in front of the oath-breaker-egg-breaker, and seized him in her massive jaws, and thrashed her neck from side to side. His wards were gone, stripped by Eragon before he vanished, and so was his life. His spine crunched in her maw, and her great fangs tore through his cape and clothes and flesh and bones, and just for good measure she kept her mouth closed and let her heart-fire-flame swirl up her throat and roast him to ash-dead-cinders.

Then, releasing the charred thing that was once the king of Alagaësia, she tipped back her enormous spiky head and bellowed her grief, a high sorrow-mourning-keening that echoed through the partly destroyed chamber and multiplied a hundred times, a thousand, bouncing back and forth against the walls, a living proof of her despair.

_Gone! _she said, to no-one but herself and Eragon, wherever he may be. _Gone! Where is he? Arya! Where is he? Do you sense him? Do you know where he is? _The elf had emerged from the rubble that surrounded Shruikan's gargantuan corpse. Her black hair was singed and dusty, and her face was smudged with dirt and blood, whether her own or the black-traitor-prison-dragon's, Saphira knew not.

"I do not feel him," she said sorrowfully. "His mind is gone. His body is gone. I fear that… he is dead, Saphira. Dead, or so far away, it is equal to death."

_No. Not when we were so close to completing our task… He cannot be gone. He cannot have _left _me, not Eragon, not my partner-of-heart-and-mind… NO!_

Saphira roared again, releasing an incandescant torrent of blue-tinged heart-fire-flame that raged over the burnt body of the king. Never had she felt such hatred, such primal-spite-anger-loathing towards a being, living or dead, before in her life. Then her head drooped, and the heart-fire-flame vanished, the last few tendrils wisping up into thin air.

_Not Eragon, _she said again, but this time it was a plea more than a command. _Do not leave me here, Eragon. _She could feel the Eldunarì pressing at her mind, murming words of solace, comfort, regret. She pushed them aside with a mental shrug. They knew what it was to lose a Rider. They knew that no words could break through the stone-iron-rock-barrier of her grief.

_Not Eragon. _The words felt almost like a mantra. Perhaps if she repeated them long enough, they would come true. _Not Eragon._

_ He cannot have gone. _

_ Not Eragon._

**OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO**

It felt like a haze. A dream, a nightmare from which there was no escape. Eragon was gone, dead, most likely, and she, Saphira, was incomplete.

She, the dragon-blood-elf-Arya, red-blood-noble-heart-Thorn and his rider-Eragon-half-brother-Murtagh left the crumbling citadel with grief in all of their hearts. They had defeated the oath-breaker-egg-breaker Galbatorix, but her Rider was dead, and they all felt her loss. They found the wolf-elf-Blödhgarm, too, and the other elven spellcasters. They spoke sadly, for they knew what had transpired. With them they bore the enslaved Eldunarì, and the egg that had been in Galbatorix's clutches. Saphira felt a small stir of weary joy when she saw its white-veined, shiny forest-green shell, but it faded rapidly away. Tiredly, she told them of the other eggs and the other Eldunarì that lay on the island of Vroengard, and she saw the humming elation that the news caused them, though they tried hard to hide it, out of respect for her and for Eragon.

There was dark-skin-strong-will Nasuada, talking quietly with Eragon-half-brother-Murtagh. She cried aloud at one point, and pressed a hand to her mouth. Tears spilled, silver and glittering, down her ebony cheeks. They continued talking softly, then Murtagh touched a hand to her collarbone. Saphira clearly saw something drain from Nasuada. She closed her eyes and let out a long breath as some painful thing seemed to leave her body. She thanked Murtagh, then glanced towards Saphira. Walking over, she said softly, "Saphira… I feel your sadness. In fact, no, I do not. I know that whatever you're feeling is a hundred, a thousand times stronger than what I feel. I… Know that if you need anybody… to talk to… or… just – just to be with, or… Know that I'm here. That's all." She pressed her fingertips to Saphira's diamond scales and dipped her head, still streaked with tears.

Saphira arched her head over Nasuada and blew out a breath of grey-fire-smoke. _I thank you, Nasuada-daughter-of-Ajihad. I will keep your words in mind. _

Then Murtagh came to join her, and offered gently to heal her wounds. She allowed him to, holding out her foreleg, watching him knit the flesh together and draw the blood back into the veins.

She also met Eragon-cousin-Stronghammer-Roran, and reluctantly, she told him of what had happened. He stood stock-still for a few minutes, his bearded, blood-streaked face pale. Then he shook his head and muttered, "Ah… I need a few moments." He'd stumbled off down the destroyed street, clumsily, like a drunk man.

Young-face-old-mind Angela was there too. She heaved a sorrowful sigh when Saphira recounted Eragon's death-vanishing. Werecat-Solembum had hissed, and flattened his tufted ears against his great shaggy head.

"The strongest fall the hardest," was all that she murmured. "I am truly sorry, Saphira."

After a while, Saphira had enough of spreading her grief around the wrecked-bone-dust-broken-city. Enough people had heard the news to be able to repeat it. She took flight, soaring high into the mist-water-off-earth-clouds, closing her eyes, feeling the moisture condense and drip off her scales. Her sadness was almost palpable in her mind. It was just not _fair… _They had come so close to success. So close… and yet, so far. After everything they had gone through, everything they had suffered, every inch of ground they'd gained, every Urgal and every soldier and every Shade they had killed, every wound they'd taken, every bitter loss they'd felt… Umaroth and the others were still there, in her consciousness, though they did not press her, and she said nothing to them. Perhaps she would speak to Glaedr, afterwards, when the pain had gone a little… He must know something about how to cope.

She banked left, feeling her chest muscles take the strain, and flapped powerfully once or twice, lifting herself above the mist-water-off-earth-clouds, and into the great blue sweep of sunlit sky. Despite the beauty of the cream-pearl-milk-white-clouds, despite the beauty of the sea-blue-gold-sun-sky, she felt only a painful clenching in her heart. She roared, and if any dragon had ever wept, she would weep now. But dragons did not weep.

Eragon was gone.

**OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO**

Saphira stayed in the air until night began to fall, and only when the sky was the colour of ink and strewn with silver stars did she descend, swooping low over the ant-nest-makeshift-home-camp that was where most of the Varden would be sleeping tonight. She found a patch of ground that was free of tents and prepared to land, spreading her wings to slow herself and reaching out with her hind legs, but something stopped her at the last moment and she lurched clumsily back into the air, stumbling slightly because of her last-minute change of plan.

Instead, she glided towards the wrecked-bone-dust-broken-city, and found a place to sleep there. She alighted at the top of a partly destroyed church, large and strong enough to support her weight, and, carefully, because of the fragile-beetle-back-dry-earth-tiles, she draped herself over the roof, digging her claws into the clay of the tiles and the wood and stone below. And, uncomfortable and aching with loss and love, she slept, unaware that far, far away, Eragon was spending his first night in District Twelve.

**OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO**

The next day, she awoke with the touch of sunlight on her scales. It took her a few moments to remember what had happened the day before, and when she did, she craned her neck towards the dawn sky and roared so loudly that the church beneath her trembled to its very foundations and a flock of birds took off, alarmed, from where thay had been roosting nearby. Angrily, she lashed her head out at the cracked spire, and her horns caught the slim grey spine of stone and sent it tumbling to the street below, where it exploded into millions of pieces. Cries of alarm came from the surrounding houses, but Saphira didn't want to hear them. She flung herself into the air, and with powerful beats of her wings, she flew away over the wreckage of the city below.

She didn't know where she was flying to, but she had to fly, she had to _move._ As long as she was moving, she wouldn't think, about yesterday or the oath-breaker-egg-breaker Galbatorix, or about the battle, or about Eragon…

She growled, furious at herself. _She should have been able to defend him. _She was his dragon. It was her duty. She'd failed him, and now he was dead, and it was all her fault. Eragon was dead because of her. A weakling. If she'd flung herself at the egg-breaker a moment earlier… but no, she hadn't, because she'd been attacking the black-traitor-prison-dragon Shruikan. One of her own kind, as well. She was pitiful.

Saphira only realized where she was when she arrived. It was the butterfly-chrysalis-tent where the Varden's main spellcasters assembled, a large pavilion decked in gold and violet. Probably deserted at this time of the morning.

Saphira landed heavily on the ground outside, stirring swirls of dust into the air, and thrust her head past the entrance flap into the tent itself, taking no notice of the fragile devices and mirrors and crystals and suchlike that tumbled to the carpeted floor with the force of her intrusion. It was empty, as she'd guessed.

Withdrawing her head, she sat back and waited. She'd considered a mental bellow to summon Du Vrangr Gata immediately from their beds or wherever they currently were, but decided that it wasn't fair on the honest soldiers who'd done their duties the day before, and were enjoying a well-deserved rest. Besides, she had time. So she set to licking the dried blood off the wound that Murtagh had healed yesterday, and waited, trying to think of nothing more than the rust-flecked blue scales of her foreleg.

After a while, they arrived, stopping dead when they saw Saphira hulking outside their tent, blood speckling her teeth and a savage light in her eyes.

"Er… greetings, Saphira, Daughter of the Wind," Trianna stammered, being unusually courteous. "We are just coming to collect some things for our work destroying Galbatorix's spells in the city… I was, and am, of course, aggrieved to hear of your Rider's demise. I am sure he fought well, and valiantly, and –"

Saphira cut her off with a growl.

_I do not care to hear of what you think about my Rider, _she said. _I am here to ask something of you. Is it possible to scry Eragon in his current location?_

"I… I don't mean to… I mean, I thought he was dead," stammered Trianna, fully aware that to argue with Saphira would be a very bad idea indeed. "I…"

_I thought so too, _Saphira agreed, cutting her off. _But I know now that he is not dead. I feel it in my heart-of-hearts. Eragon is not dead, of that I am sure. _

_ "_I suppose that I could try to scry him," said Trianna weakly. "But the energy required would be … immense, to say the least."

_Let me worry about the energy, _Saphira interjected. _Now scry him._

She watched as Trianna entered the tent, issuing orders to her fellow magicians. They took up several devices whose meanings were lost on Saphira and hurried out, casting frightened glances back at her. She ignored them and instead, watched Trianna herself as she picked up a flat mirror and incanted a spell in a trembling voice. Saphira opened the barriers between the woman's spirit and hers, allowing her energy to flow into the human's fragile-insect-husk-body.

At first, the mirror was white. Then, like a drop of ink falling into a saucer of milk, blackness blossomed across the pearly flatness. Then… Saphira saw the pale flash of an upturned face, the swift gleam of a brown eye… and her life-soul-energy started emptying at an alarming rate, flooding from her body into Trianna's. Saphira felt tremors start in her talons and travel up her legs, then her vision became dark and flickery and she stumbled, and nearly fell. Frantically, she slammed the barriers shut, and Trianna ended the spell.

"If he is alive," said Trianna somewhat shakily, after they spent a minute gulping breath back into their lungs, "he is too far to be scried."

_Thank you for trying, _replied Saphira. Then she withdrew her head from the chrysalis-tent and took off, buffeting the tents below with powerful gusts of wind.

As she soared over the grey-brown sprawl of the Varden's camp and then the gold and green fields further on, she reflected upon the scrying session. _Eragon was alive. _That she knew. But if he was too far to be scried… that was far indeed, many thousands… no, many millions of leagues away. Not even Saphira could travel that far. It was a hopeless cause.

But one thing that Saphira had learned in her life was that nothing was hopeless. Nothing.

And nothing was impossible.

**OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO**

The weeks gradually began to blend into a seamless tapestry of hunting, sleeping, and helping the Varden rebuild the Empire. Soon after her meeting with Trianna, they elected a queen. Nasuada, dark-skin-strong-will. Saphira abstained from the vote, but she was pleased with the outcome. Nasuada-daughter-of-Ajihad was a fitting leader for Alagaësia.

She was still sad about Eragon, though. Gradually, she grew more and more withdrawn, more and more reserved. She had kept the ruined church as her nesting-place, for even though it was uncomfortable it was high and rocky, and she liked to sleep in such places. But as the days merged into one, grief-tainted whole, she withdrew from human contact, and returned to the wrecked-bone-dust-broken-city only to sleep. Once or twice she dreamed of Eragon, though she did not remember the visions come the morning. She spent her waking hours in the tangled forests nearby – at least, it was nearby for a dragon – hunting animals and devouring them, or drinking in the shallow pools, or basking in wide swathes of sunlight, as if hoping that the heat from the sun would thaw the coldness in her heart.

**OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO**

Saphira awoke.

It was different. Something was different.

Every day since Eragon had gone, she'd woken up with a deep ache in her chest. A heavy pain. It had vanished during the day time, but returned at dawn, without fail. Only now it was not dawn. It was star-sprinkled night.

And the pain was unberable.

Saphira growled at the torment of it, and launched into the air, heading instinctively towards the forest were she spent her time nowadays. As she was gliding through the still, dark air, the stars and the moon above her and the fields and orchards below, she wondered what this pain was, and why she was flying towards the black-tangle-wild-forest instead of towards a healer or a magician from the Varden.

A spasm of agony interrupted her thoughts. Twisting in the air, she fell from the sky, to land heavily in a field of corn. Luckily, she was not too badly hurt, she discovered as she beat her wings once or twice and stretched out her limbs. But the pain was now such that her vision was greying and her legs felt like cloud.

A convulsion rippled through her, and she extended her throat, like she was about to vomit, though nothing came out.

Another convulsion, and she fell to the ground, her body beyond her own control, pain gripping every inch of her.

A third convulsion…

Her chest felt like it was about to tear asunder…

And _something _emerged from between her teeth.

It was not heart-fire-flame.

It was heart-fire-magic.

It hung in the air, a transluscent, starry mist, now pale blue then deepest indigo then coloured like the sea, green and violet and shifting shades of shining irridescence.

Saphira knew what this was immediately.

It was a portal.

And it would take her to her Rider.

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**The end! I'm in a rush at the moment, so I'll explain about the portal and all that next time. For now, I can only say I hope you enjoyed that and please REVIEWW!**

**;)**


	20. Chapter 19

**This is, as it turned out, the last chapter. Nineteen chapters! Argh! It's frustrating… But I kind of wrote this one on the spur of the moment. Also, thanks to Ai Huiyuan and Dragonnetic, my two most faithful reviewers! I'm in your debt! (Or would that be debts…? Whatever, it doesn't matter.) Really, I mean it when I say thank you. Thank you. Truly.**

**Anyway, now, as I said, I'll explain about the portal that Saphira created. Basically the Eldunarì in her chest was still kind of LINKED to Eragon and it allowed her to create a portal because it had absorbed Galbatorix's energy when she killed him. (I'm breaking about twenty rules of magic, I know…) And for those of you who wondered wher Fìrnen got to; well, it said in the book that he only arrived quite a long time after the final battle had been fought. But only a month had passed between Saphira killing Galbatorix and her creating the portal.**

**That's all I have to say. If you have any questions or whatever about this chapter's ending, just PM me and I'll try to explain.**

**For the last time, I own nothing.**

**Now, please enjoy this final installment of my fanfic!**

**OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO**

Sé mor'ranr ono finna

It was morning properly now in the arena. The sky was an unbroken blue, the sea was finally calm and silver fish splashed playfully in and out of the water. It could have been heaven.

If not for the fact that Eragon and Katniss were marooned on a slab of ice no larger than a bed.

"I"m starting to get concerned," he said, standing up for the hundredth time since they'd made their narrow escape from the wolf muttations and peering towards the land that was visible on the horizon. "I really think we should try to be paddling."

"For the last time Eragon we don't _have _a paddle or anything that could _serve _as a paddle," snapped Katniss, who was sitting cross-legged on the smooth ice. "Got it? Just re-_lax. _Everything will be fine. There's nothing we can do!"

"Oh, I would relax, Katniss, I truly would," said Eragon. "If we weren't, oh, I don't know, stranded in the middle of an ocean that's controlled by people who are watching us right now, on a piece of ice that will _melt _the minute the temperature of this water rises by a fraction of a degree!"

"Very well. I'll try to paddle. Pass me that." So saying, she snatched Eragon's sword from its scabbard and plunged it into the sea, where she waved it around ineffectually. "Oh dear, it's not working. Do you think there's anything else I can use? No? Well, we'll just have to wait, then, won't we." She tossed Blödhslytha back at him – he caught it easily by the crossguard – and returned to her previous spot, folding her arms around her knees and staring angrily at nothing.

"Look," he said. "I'm sorry. It's just that… well, I don't know, really. I feel kind of trapped here."

Katniss said nothing, only folded her arms more tightly around her legs and frowned. Some time later, when Eragon thought he'd blown it and she wasn't going to say anything ever again, she spoke. "Me too." Encouraged by this, he smiled and knelt down.

"Don't worry. We'll be fine. Really. We've got this far, haven't we?"

She nodded grudgingly. "I suppose so."

They sat in silence for a long while. There was nothing to do, only sit and wait… Eragon's ribs were hurting a lot less, anyway. There had been a period of intense itching after he'd applied the bone-fixing gel and he'd had to struggle to not rip his skin to shreds, but then it had faded away and his ribs now felt almost as good as new.

Suddenly, a strong wind began to blow. It whipped the calm sea into a frothing mass and started pushing Eragon and Katniss's ice island towards the mainland. They looked at each other, delight in their eyes, hardly able to believe it.

"Well, who guessed it?" Katniss grinned, jumping up and peering excitedly towards the forest and snow plains of the arena. "Maybe the Gamemakers are on our side after all."

Eragon said nothing. Of course he was pleased that they were moving again… but one thing that the war with Galbatorix had taught him – in fact, no, it was something he'd known all his life – was that it was never too easy. Your enemies were never on your side. Bad things were often disguised as good things. There was always a knife at your back.

Things ended well only in stories.

He guessed that Katniss knew it too. He could see it in the set of her eyebrows, in the worry that filled her dark eyes. But they both put on a facade. They both pretended that they didn't know what was coming.

But they hadn't guessed that it would come so soon.

A massive eel-like monster burst from the sea, trailing silver droplets of water, and slammed down onto the ice, were it lay and writhed before, with an incredibly powerful flick of its muscular body, whipped round and fastened its needle-filled jaws around Katniss's thigh. She screamed and stumbled, then fell as the muttation twisted its head – or whatever head it had, it seemed to be made of one long rope of black muscle with gaping, bulging white eyes set on either side of the front of its body – and jerked her down onto the ice. She scrabbled for her bow, but Eragon knew she had no chance of shooting the thing in the position that she was in. He leaped forwards, drawing Blödhslytha, and slashed at the mutt's neck – again, it wasn't distinguishable, but Eragon aimed for the spot just behind its huge pale eyes, hoping to sever the spinal cord. The blade bounced off the thick slimy skin, leaving not even a scratch. He stared in horror at his sword. It was badly chipped, with a thin fissure running down its length. He couldn't use it anymore.

Quickly recovering from the shock of losing his weapon, he tossed it aside and lunged for the monster bare-handed. He grabbed its thrashing head by the two silky fins that sprouted from either side of it and tried to wrench it off Katniss, who was still yelling and trying to nock an arrow to the bow she'd managed to grab, but the mutt was incredibly powerful and took no more heed of Eragon – who was as strong and as skilled as an elf – than a bull does a flea. He pulled and pulled but had to give in. Desperately, he scrabbled for Katniss's quiver and wrenched an arrow from it. Then, as best he could, he immobilized the fang-filled head of the eel-muttation and plunged the arrow into one of its gaping, empty eyes up to the feathers.

The muttation shrieked and convulsed, its entire body writhing and slapping across the ice. It hadn't yet let go of Katniss, whose trousers were now sodden with blood. Eragon threw himself at it again, intending to repeat the process with the other eye, but just then the eel-mutt gave a particularly violent twist and its thrashing tail whacked into Eragon's chest.

It was like being kicked by a horse. He was thrown backwards off the island, feeling his ribs crack open again, and only had time to think _Uh-oh, _before he plunged into ice-cold water.

The breath was knocked out of him for a second time as frosty tendrils shot through him, chilling him from inside out, turning the blood in his veins to ice, freezing his heart.

With a few feeble kicks Eragon managed to reach the surface and gasped a few breaths of air. He felt so weak… his hands and feet were already numb, and that numbness was spreading up his arms and legs with every second that went past. He raised an arm weakly and tried to swim for the island, while knowing that even if he got there, the cold in his bones would kill him.

The water was stained red with Katniss's blood. She'd stopped fighting, probably passed out, or too exhausted to move. It was all over. They would die here. They would die in this icy arena, and Eragon would never see Alagaësia again. Tears filled his eyes. It was an effort to just keep above the surface of the water. He stopped kicking. The cold had reached his heart now… slowly, he started to sink. His eyes closed as the breath in his lungs left him in a soft sigh.

The water rose over his neck, over his chin, over his mouth and nose. His heart slowed. Soon it would stop. And then, finally, he would know peace.

Just as the freezing water was rising over his eyelashes, a thunderous roar shook the air and sent ripples splashing over Eragon's face. Finding a last well of strenght within him, buried somewhere deep in his soul, he opened his eyes, and lifted his face above the surface once again, knowing that he couldn't hold the position for more than a few seconds.

A few seconds sufficed to see the incredible scene that lay in front of him. A swirling blue mist hung in the air over the island of ice where Katniss lay, still being mauled by the eel muttation. Even as he watched, the air itself seemed to shimmer… and split… and an enormous beast burst from the sea-blue portal, spreading its wings and releasing another earth-shaking roar. Eragon knew who it was. He was glad to see her again before he died. No, not glad. Happy. Content. He wouldn't have died alone.

Finally, he felt at peace.

He watched as she dove through the air and seized the eel-muttation in her maw, her great fangs ripping through its flesh with ease, then gave a violent twist of her neck and broke its spine with a violent _crack _before tossing its limp body away. Dragon triumphed over muttation. Alagaësia triumphed over Panem. Rider triumphed over Capitol.

Hovering in the air in front of him, sending waves splashing over the islands of ice with each beat of her mighty wings, a halo of fire wreathing her jaws, glittering, fiery, _magnificent, _was his dragon, Saphira Bjartskular, the Daughter of the Wind.

And as his last breath left him, as his eyelids flickered, as his heart finally gave its last heroic beat, as the boom of a cannon echoed through the icy arena and as Eragon Shadeslayer, bearer of the sword Brisingr, hero of the Varden, son of Brom, killer of kings and forever Dragon Rider of Alagaësia, passed away, he managed a few last words before he sank lifeless beneath the waves.

"I love you, Saphira."

She heard him. She always heard him. They were linked through mind and heart.

She turned her flame-filled azure gaze upon his frozen body. The eyes that were sometimes fierce, sometimes angry, sometimes proud, but never fearful, now shone and swam with tears. And although Eragon had never seen a dragon cry, a silver tear slipped from the corner of each of those mighty eyes and traced a line of moonlight down her scales. He heard her voice clearly in his mind when she spoke. A final link to the home he would never see again.

_I love you too, little one._

**THE END**

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… **well… that's that finished. I hope that ending wasn't too… disappointing for those of you who were hoping for more cliffhangers. I might do an epilogue someday… so watch out for any updates. But, anyway, I really hope you enjoyed this fanfic. Thank you to all those of you who read it. Thank you even more to all those of you who spared some of your time to review it (for those of you who haven't, it's not too late!) **

**So, that's my first fanfiction story finished! I think I'll have a pause for a while, then I might write some more. You can always check any updates on my profile.**

**Thanks again, in particular to Dragonnetic, Madhatter, TimC and Ai Huiyuan. Really, I mean it.**

**See you soon! ;)**

**-playonworlds**


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